


The Trials of Asmodean

by bloodylullabies



Category: Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Black Tower, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Healthy Relationships, M/M, Mazmodean - Freeform, No Smut, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:15:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 108,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23106091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodylullabies/pseuds/bloodylullabies
Summary: The life of the man known as Jasin Natael, from the day he nearly died – twice – until the Last Battle.After the events that led to Rahvin’s permanent demise in Caemlyn and following the announcement of the Amnesty, Rand al’Thor decides to entrust his reluctant teacher with the leadership of the “farm”.Soon, Natael must welcome, against his will, a co-leader: the infamous Mazrim Taim, a former False Dragon from Saldaea. Together, they will attempt (with limited success) to foil the plans of the fearsome Chosen Demandred, who has taken an interest in the Black Tower.
Relationships: Asmodean/Mazrim Taim
Comments: 138
Kudos: 29





	1. Delaying death is one of my favourite hobbies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NearDeathMetalJen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NearDeathMetalJen/gifts).



> Updates will likely be weeks apart, but despair not, for they will come eventually. The only thing that would keep me from completing a story is death.

_Already died once_

_Enough with the balefire_

_Cauthon saves the day_

Natael heard the door slam shut behind him. His eyes barely had time to adjust to the gloom inside the pantry when he realised that he was not alone.

Graendal smirked, and Natael could only gape at her in horror when he felt a light tingling on his skin, indicating that the blasted woman had embraced the Source. Raising his hands as though it would somehow protect him, he backed down a few steps but bumped into a shelf. He was trapped.

Everything seemed to happen all at once. Natael realised he couldn’t channel; Graendal must have him shielded. He could almost _feel_ the balefire being woven, but just then the pantry door opened wide, crashing into his shoulder. With a yelp of pain, Natael lost his balance and fell to the floor. He saw the balefire hit a wall, which disintegrated. The weave must have missed him by an inch.

Graendal cursed in the Old Tongue, and someone else cursed right back at her in the same language – a man’s voice. There was a loud _thud_ , and then nothing.

Natael scrambled to his feet, feeling disoriented. With the door open, there was enough light for him to watch Cauthon striking the empty air with his quarterstaff. Graendal was gone.

Cauthon appeared to realise that, as well. He let the quarterstaff fall to his side and looked Natael up and down. “Blood and ashes, man. What was _that_ all about?”

“You saved my life,” Natael blurted out without thinking.

“I was just looking for some wine,” Cauthon muttered. “I followed you when it became clear that you’d spotted a secret wine stash.”

“I think we could all use some wine right now,” Natael concurred. His legs were wobbly; he was drenched in sweat. He sat down with his legs crossed, leaning against a wall that hadn’t been burned out of existence. Where the other wall had stood, there was now what appeared to be a long-forgotten storage room riddled with cobwebs.

Darkness within, it had been a close shave. He couldn’t explain how they’d both survived, with him being shielded and Cauthon armed with such a primitive weapon.

“I smacked her right in the nose,” Cauthon declared with some satisfaction. “Didn’t do much damage, I suppose, but it certainly scared her off.” He paused, considering. “Who was she, anyway? I only attacked her because you were clearly being outmatched. By a woman.” He grinned mockingly.

“Clearly?” Natael repeated hotly. “How could you possibly know that she had me shielded and-” He cut off abruptly, realising his mistake.

There was an awkward silence.

“You can channel?” Cauthon said after a moment. The lad had a knack for stating the obvious. His face visibly paled. “Does Rand know?”

Oh, but he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, was he? “Evidently,” Natael replied disdainfully. “And to answer your earlier question, that was Graendal.” He was rewarded by Cauthon’s expression of dismay. His face had turned a sickly shade of green. “We ought to warn the Lord Dragon.”

Cauthon cleared his throat. “Uh…right. Yes. Rand should know about this.” He didn’t move, however. He eyed Natael uncertainly. “Why was Graendal trying to kill you?”

“I’ll leave the privilege of explaining this to you to the Lord Dragon.”

* * *

“Are you telling me that _Asmodean_ has been following us around for weeks? And you _knew_ about it?” Cauthon yelled indignantly. “Flaming ashes, Rand. Are you out of your bloody mind?”

“Not quite yet,” al’Thor replied frostily.

Cauthon’s cheeks flushed in embarrassment. “I didn’t mean-”

“I know exactly what you meant,” al’Thor said through gritted teeth. “I didn’t have a choice, Mat. I needed a tutor. Surely even _you_ can understand that?”

Cauthon turned a bright shade of crimson. Natael decided to diffuse the situation. Al’Thor’s sanity was a matter of debate for another day. “My Lord Dragon, if I may?” The sheepherder nodded curtly. “Perhaps we ought to focus on the fact that Graendal was here just a few minutes ago?” he suggested.

Al’Thor sighed heavily. “I don’t suppose she targeted you by mistake?”

Natael scowled. “What do you mean? It makes perfect sense that she would want me dead,” he said. “They all do, I’m sure. The Great Lord must have issued a warrant for my head.” And Rahvin’s death, so soon after Lanfear’s…disappearance, must have spurned the others into action. Natael didn’t bring this up, however. It would only remind al’Thor that he’d just lost one his staunchest allies – the so-called Aes Sedai, Moiraine Damodred.

As for Lanfear… Well, she was still alive, that was certain. Otherwise Natael’s shield would have dissolved by now. She had to be trapped in the Finn’s realm, Sindhol. A fate Natael would normally not wish on his worst enemy, but Lanfear had always been a nuisance. She deserved this. Unlike Damodred. He wondered if the woman was dead, or if she was suffering the same fate as Lanfear. But surely, if Mandragoran had left so suddenly, their bond must have shattered, which could only mean that she was indeed dead. Unless she’d severed the bond herself, to prevent anyone from attempting a doomed rescue? Natael wondered if al’Thor had considered that.

He hadn’t said anything about Lanfear. To be fair, he’d expected al’Thor to bring up the topic himself. If he thought Damodred dead, then he likely believed Mierin to be dead as well. It should therefore have crossed his mind that Natael’s shield would vanish. But he hadn’t mentioned it yet. Perhaps the wound was still too fresh, and Natael’s news would only add insult to injury. It was hardly fair that Lanfear had survived when the other woman had perished – at least al’Thor would see it that way. Natael knew better. It was a much more enviable fate to be killed before reaching the Finn’s realm. Lanfear would be drained of her power with exquisite slowness, and the process was said to be quite painful besides. Natael shuddered at the thought. The Finn made his skin crawl. They always had.

“She might have been after Mat, who is _ta’veren_ ,” al’Thor pointed out. “You were both in the gardens. And you both like wine,” he added.

Natael hadn’t considered that. But given the look of gleeful triumph on Graendal’s face as she was about to erase him permanently from the Pattern, he assumed that he was indeed the designated target. Cauthon would have been a bonus, if anything.

He had to convince al’Thor. He needed to be watched at all times; he required protection. What if Graendal returned while he slept? Or at any moment, really. He was quite defenceless. “My Lord Dragon,” he said earnestly, “I believe some Maidens and Wise Ones should be appointed as my personal escort.” Better to have a few channelers close at hand. Against one of the Chosen, the Maidens wouldn’t stand a chance. They didn’t have Cauthon’s luck.

Al’Thor laughed. He _laughed_! Was Natael’s predicament amusing to him? “And what reason could I possibly give them for this sudden, bizarre assignment? You’re supposed to be a _bard_ , Natael. No matter how good of a musician you are, nobody expects a bard to have a retinue of Maidens. Let alone Wise Ones,” he added with a wry chuckle. “And it’s not like they would do as I ask, in any case. Can you imagine me ordering Sorilea to follow you around? Or do anything I command, for that matter?”

“Well, not Sorilea, perhaps, but-”

Al’Thor waved a hand in dismissal. “No. They will be suspicious if I ask the Maidens to keep an eye on you, and your identity _must_ remain a secret, at least for the time being.” He glared at Cauthon as he said that. “Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” Cauthon muttered.

“But my Lord-”

“Natael, enough of your whining!” al’Thor barked. “We’re all in danger, everywhere, all the time. Do you believe your life to be worth more than that of any of the Maidens?” he asked, his tone dangerously soft. He reminded Natael a bit of Demandred, when he talked like that, which was ironic, really. Demandred couldn’t stand Lews Therin, and who was al’Thor but Demandred’s bitterest rival reborn?

“No, of course not,” Natael replied meekly. He did, in truth, value his own life more than that of…well, anyone else’s, but saying so out loud might get him hurt, or worse, judging by al’Thor’s expression.

The Dragon Reborn seemed to read right through him, but he made no comment regarding the obvious lie. He studied Natael with a calculating gaze for a minute while Cauthon shuffled his feet restlessly. Being near one of the Chosen was clearly making him jumpy. “I suppose you’re right,” al’Thor said eventually. “You may be in a more immediate danger than most.” A feral smile abruptly lit up his face. “But no retinue of Aiel for you, Master Natael. I have a better idea. In fact, I was just discussing the matter with Lord Bashere. You may have encountered him on your way here.”

Natael nodded dubiously. Bashere was the old Saldaean they’d almost ran into in their hurry to get to al’Thor, he assumed. But what did the man have to do with any of this?

A strong sense of doom engulfed him as al’Thor began to explain his plan.

* * *

Natael tapped Cauthon on the shoulder, and the lad nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw him. They were alone in the gardens, Cauthon sitting on a bench under a red myrtle tree. “What do you bloody want now?”

Natael proffered a bottle of wine. “I wanted to give you this. It’s a…thank-you gift. You know, for…saving me, earlier.”

“It wasn’t my intention,” Cauthon grumbled. “If I’d known…”

“If you’d known who I was, you would have let Graendal kill me?” Cauthon shrugged noncommittally. “Then you would have had to face her on your own, without the element of surprise – which, I’ll have you know, is what saved us both, rather than that big stick of yours.”

Cauthon glared at the bottle for a moment, then finally removed the cork, with his teeth, like the ill-mannered peasant he was. He sniffed the contents suspiciously, frowning. Natael sighed. “Here, I’ll take a swig.” He grabbed the bottle and drank avidly. It wasn’t great, nor even good, but he’d had much worse in this Age and was in dire need of a large dose of alcohol besides. “Mediocre, but not poisoned,” he declared as he handed the bottle back to the lad.

Cauthon took a cautious sip. “Mediocre?” he repeated incredulously. “This is fit for a bloody king!” He gulped down the equivalent of a glass before remembering to breathe. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, causing Natael to grimace. That would leave a stain. Cauthon offered Natael the bottle again. “It’s ironic, you know,” he said wryly, “that the person I least intended to rescue is the only one who actually thanked me for it.”

Natael scowled at that, wondering what he meant. He was only being polite. Who wouldn’t thank the person who’d rescued them, no matter the circumstances? “I feel that it would have been quite cruel that I died this afternoon, so soon after…well, after already dying once this morning. So you deserve-”

“Wait, what?” Cauthon interrupted him. “You died this morning? What does that even mean? Is it a Forsaken thing?”

Natael cocked his head sideways, eyeing him curiously. Had he forgotten that he’d died, too? Or didn’t he understand how balefire worked, perhaps? He opened his mouth to explain, mentally preparing to have to repeat himself several times to get through Cauthon’s thick skull, but then he considered the matter more carefully. If Cauthon was lucky enough to have forgotten, or if he didn’t know what had happened at all, ignorant as he was… Perhaps it was for the best. Ignorance was bliss, wasn’t it? There was no need to traumatise the lad unnecessarily. The Great Lord knew, he was confused enough. “It’s an expression. An old one,” he said eventually. “’Die’ is just another word for ‘faint’. You know, you pass out, then you regain consciousness… It feels like dying. Or so I assume. I must be translating it wrong from the-” From the Old Tongue, he was about to say. But if Cauthon asked for the original word… It still irked him greatly that he had no idea why the lad was so fluent in Natael’s native language.

He shouldn’t have worried, however. Anyone else would have called him out on this preposterous lie, but Cauthon nodded indifferently, accepting the nonsensical explanation without hesitation. He snatched the bottle and took another swig. “So you fainted during the battle, eh?” he said tauntingly. “You must have been quite an embarrassment to the Forsaken. No wonder they’re trying to kill you.”

And people wondered why Natael had turned to the Shadow, honestly. People were so _mean_ , and often to him in particular. He was already regretting being merciful a moment ago. He had better leave, anyway. He had to pack his things. He abandoned his saviour to his wine.

_Fit for a king_. Natael shook his head. Uncultured bumpkins, the lot of them.


	2. You’re one microscopic cog in his catastrophic plan

_Too good for this world_

_Here is an ode to the goats_

_Please don’t eat my corpse_

Natael stared at the crumbly old farm in dismay. What in the Pit of Doom was he supposed to do with _that_? He glanced at al’Thor, who stood rigidly at his side. The Dragon Reborn had a faraway look in his eyes. Of course, they were surrounded by two dozen Maidens of the Spear.

Natael cleared his throat. “Um…I assume that you intend to rebuild the place before it can become…” He hesitated. He still wasn’t sure what al’Thor meant to establish here. A school? A military camp?

…an asylum?

Al’Thor snapped out of his reverie. “The reason I want _you_ to be in charge of this place is precisely because I do not have the time to oversee the project myself, Natael,” he said crisply. “If you deem it necessary to renovate the farm, do it. I leave that sort of decision to your better judgement.”

He could hardly believe his ears. For months al’Thor had refused to trust him with anything more than his harp and a rusty sword Natael could barely lift, let alone wield properly. And now he’d suddenly decided that he could be trusted with _this_?

“This” seemed to encompass many things. Foremost among them, the Dragon Reborn’s recent amnesty regarding all male channelers across the Westlands – which he didn’t rule, not by a long shot, but that didn’t deter the boy. Al’Thor had declared that male channelers would be protected, that they were welcome to join him and that he would prepare them for the Last Battle.

And Natael was supposed to be the one taking care of that.

In truth, he doubted that anything would come out of this, and certainly nothing _good_. How many male channelers could there be, knowing that the Red Ajah had been actively hunting them down and severing them for centuries? Besides, even with the amnesty, what sort of madman would want to learn how to wield _saidin_ , knowing that it would eventually drive them insane and kill them? Not to mention the reputation they’d receive. Male channelers were considered a plague, and no amnesty would change that. Natael had heard stories of kith and kin delivering men they suspected of channeling to the White Tower, and even worse stories of families not bothering to call on the Aes Sedai and getting the job done themselves.

Natael shuddered involuntarily. He used to consider all this with detachment, but no longer. He was as much subject to the taint as any other male channeler. Going mad would be his fate, as well as al’Thor’s, eventually.

Although al’Thor had a clear advance on him in that regard.

Natael wasn’t sure what good he could do here, anyway. He could barely channel a trickle of the Power, and he was a poor excuse of a teacher – according to the boy, that was. The truth was that, despite everything, he was still trying to keep his knowledge to himself. He still entertained a faint hope that the Great Lord would forgive him and restore him as one of the Chosen – though it was becoming fainter as time went by, and even more so since Graendal’s attempt on his life.

True, things had turned out much better than he’d expected, after he’d been shielded by Lanfear and captured by the Dragon in Rhuidean. The early days had been downright ghastly, but after Cairhien, things had started to look up. Al’Thor pretty much stopped paying him any attention. He’d caught the boy startling at the sound of his voice, once, as though he’d entirely forgotten that Natael existed. Natael had been free to do whatever he wanted for a few weeks. He hadn’t considered fleeing, however, for fear that his former colleagues would get their hands on him. He felt somewhat safer in the shadow of the Dragon, despite the boy’s incipient madness.

Now al’Thor was cutting him loose, or near enough. Did he trust Natael, or was he simply eager to get rid of him? Or perhaps he was using him as bait. Natael wondered, for the umpteenth time that day, how long it would take the other Chosen to find him here. Would they fear a trap? _Was_ it a trap? If it was, the Dragon hadn’t bothered to share his plans with Natael.

“You know what’s expected of you,” al’Thor said, his voice like steel. “Gather as many men as you can. Teach them. Train them. I’m not sure when I’ll need them, but they should be prepared to answer my call at a moment’s notice.”

The boy made it sound like a thousand male channelers would simply materialise here and would be fighting over the chance to serve him – to die for him, really. And he had the nerve to complain about Natael’s supposedly overinflated ego!

At best, Natael expected that, in a few months, he might have assembled a ragtag army of two or three dozen channelers. He wasn’t sure how much good they would do in the battle to come. What if one of them went mad during combat? They could as easily annihilate the Dragon’s army as that of the Shadow, or even cause a second Breaking.

No, Natael didn’t see what al’Thor had in mind, not in its concrete form, anyway.

He didn’t have much of a choice, however. The Dragon had commanded him to remain here and wait for recruits, to have them settled in and to test them. That was only the beginning, of course.

It was the waiting part that bothered him most. What was he supposed to do until people did show up? He loved playing his harp, but there was no one to listen to him play. He would be on his own – al’Thor had refused to provide guards. He couldn’t spare them, he claimed.

Well, on his head be it. Natael would likely be dead before the day was out.

* * *

Nobody came for Natael that day, nor the following week. He didn’t know whether to feel relieved or insulted.

Had the Chosen, like al’Thor, dismissed him entirely? Had they forgotten about him? It seemed unlikely. Petty vengeance was what the Chosen lived for, what they’d sold their souls for. So why was he still alive?

He almost wished he wasn’t. He was bored out of his mind. There was nothing to do out here, and his only audience consisted in a couple of skeletal goats and a dozen chickens. If he’d had his full strength, he could have at least worked on repairs on the farmhouse – the place really was falling to pieces. As it was, however, he could barely channel enough of the Power to boil water for tea.

It never crossed his mind that he could begin working on repairs physically, without using _saidin_.

And of course there was nothing else to drink; no wine, no liquor, not even the appalling ale of which the people of this Age were so fond. He had only water and tea. The situation was dire indeed.

If the taint didn’t drive him mad, boredom and forced sobriety certainly would.

* * *

And then Damer Flinn showed up. He was old and appeared to be in as bad a shape as the farm itself, but he was _someone_.

With Natael's luck, however, the man wouldn’t be able to channel and he would have to send him away. Although if Flinn really had nothing better to do with his time, he could work on repairing the farmhouse…and see to several other chores as well.

Testing men to detect their ability to channel was one of the dullest tasks he could think of. It could take up to half an hour, sometimes longer, and absolutely nothing happened during that time. Natael almost fell asleep while testing Flinn, though the man’s concentration never wavered. He seemed quite intent on testing positive.

And, against all odds, the former soldier proved able to wield _saidin_.

Well, well. That was an unexpected development. But perhaps it was just luck; it was unlikely that every man who came here would possess the ability. Or was it al’Thor’s _ta’veren_ nature at work? Natael doubted it could influence the farm, with the boy so far away, but he wouldn’t put it past him.

Flinn was not very talkative. Natael gleaned that he was a retired Andoran Queen’s Guard who’d suffered a serious injury, but that was about it. He didn’t mention any family. He was, however, willing to work on renovations until Natael decided what to do with him.

Natael considered this. Flinn was strong, despite his advanced age, but wouldn’t it be more useful to teach him how to do it all with _saidin_? He might as well start his training now, and what better training than constant practice? Natael would have to instruct the man in how to even touch the One Power, of course. He’d never had to explain that to anyone. Al’Thor had known that much, at least, and it had been too long for Natael to remember how _he_ had learned to do it. It felt natural to him, like breathing. So how to describe the process to an old man who’d likely never even considered channeling before he heard about the Dragon’s amnesty?

It was an awkward procedure. Natael’s patience ran out quickly, and his snappy comments only seemed to make Flinn more stubborn. Natael gave up after an hour. He told Flinn to take care of the few scattered animals then locked himself up in his bedroom with his harp. He’d told Flinn to take his bedroll into the barn. Natael was, after all, in charge of the place. He couldn’t have Flinn or other potential candidates sharing the same building. The men would need to know their place.

They tried it again the next day, with the same result. Honestly, how difficult could it be? He was enunciating the method with as much clarity as was humanly possible.

Three bloody days. That was how long it took until Flinn was finally able to seize _saidin_. He lost contact almost immediately, but it didn’t matter. He knew how to do it now. The difficult part was over.

Two more men arrived with a carriage from Andor that day. Natael tested them, but neither had the spark. He sent them away, after refusing to accommodate them for the night. This wasn’t a bloody inn, burn them.

He began instructing Flinn, demonstrating basic weaves of Air and Fire – Natael’s strongest elements. Now that he’d picked up the trick, Flinn turned out to be a fast learner. When he asked to be shown Healing weaves, however, Natael laughed in his face. Healing was not something taught to beginners. What Natael didn’t tell him was that, even had he possessed any skill in Healing, he was too weak to demonstrate it. He didn’t think that the other man understood how weak Natael was – not yet, anyway.

When three more men appeared the next day, Natael decided to show Flinn how testing worked. If he could leave all the dirty work to the old man, he wouldn’t hesitate. When one of the men was tested positive, Natael commanded Flinn to teach him how to embrace _saidin_. And just like that, he had delegated the two most annoying chores to the codger. Now all he had to do was teach them not to burn themselves out, but that proved unnecessary: the taint was so filthy that both recruits were reluctant to draw much of the Power for any extended period of time.

Natael had never expected so many men to willingly seek out the farm. Five men were tested the next day, four the day after that, though none of them displayed any ability to channel. It was as he’d told al’Thor: there simply weren’t that many male channelers left in the world, thanks to the Aes Sedai. What truly surprised him, however, was that many of the applicants were accompanied by their families.

That some brave, ambitious young men wished to fight for the Dragon Reborn was one thing. That they wanted to know if they could channel was already quite peculiar, but that they would displace their wives and children, uproot them in the hopes of joining a lost cause? He found it shocking – and idiotic. This was no place for women, let alone children, but when Jur Grady’s wife starkly refused to leave her husband behind, Natael didn’t insist. If the bloody woman wanted to witness her husband’s descent into madness, if she wanted their _son_ to bear witness, then it was her problem.

He could have sent Grady away, of course, but with only three recruits so far, out of thirty applicants, he couldn’t afford to be picky.


	3. On a gathering storm comes a tall handsome man

_Dark and brooding, yum_

_Too dangerous for my taste_

_I’m not your servant_

Life crawled by at the farm.

Natael had delegated most of the work to Flinn and the other applicants – there were only five channelers, and Natael had been here for over a month. If al’Thor had intended to use him as bait for the other Chosen, his plan had failed splendidly. The most interesting thing that had happened was the discovery of a wasp nest in the barn, which Gadren Grady had sensibly poked with a stick. The boy was now covered in lumps, which Natael had refused to Heal – officially, because the boy had had it coming, but really because he had no idea how to do that. Flinn had tried to take care of it behind his back, with no result. What had he expected? Healing was one of the most difficult skills to master, and Flinn had absolutely no basis to go by. The bloody codger relentlessly insisted on being taught more than sweeping weaves of Air to dust or threads of fire to boil water, but Natael would not give in. He was not quite ready to admit that every single one of the applicants outmatched him by far.

At least he had wine, now. Al’Thor had finally decided to send more substantial provisions to the farm, probably thinking that Natael now had an army to feed. Far from it, but the wine was a welcome addition to his personal supplies.

He spent most of his days in a haze, usually outside in the sun, playing his harp while Flinn and Grady toiled and sweated – Natael hadn’t deemed relevant to teach them how to ignore the unnatural heat. It was relatively amusing to watch, and he had precious little entertainment as it was.

The latest arrival, however, was going to turn everything upside down.

He didn’t arrive in a cart, but accompanied by the Dragon Reborn himself. And a dozen Maidens, needless to say.

Natael was sitting on a hay bale, busy trying to remove a wine stain from his favourite fuchsia silk shirt when anxious mutters from the men caused him to raise his head. Al’Thor was marching toward the farm at a quick pace, trailed by his usual retinue of Aiel ladies. At the Dragon Reborn’s side, standing almost as tall as the farm boy, was a strapping man in his late twenties or early thirties.

For a moment, Natael could only stare. In the little time since he’d been brought out of his millennial slumber inside the Bore, he’d met very few men as handsome as this one. He had jet black hair and tilted eyes, and his features - high cheekbones and a hooked nose - marked him as Saldaean as certainly as Natael’s had marked him as a native of Shorelle, when the city still existed.

Natael had a fairly good idea who the newcomer might be; al’Thor had been discussing the matter with Lord Bashere just before sending Natael to the farm.

Mazrim Taim had arrived.

* * *

Taim strode inside the courtyard as though he owned the bloody place. He surveyed the men assembled there with unconcealed derision.

Natael stumbled to his feet. He hadn’t realised that he’d drunk _that_ much. He did his best to look presentable and moved forward with affected nonchalance to welcome al’Thor and this new, infamous recruit. “My Lord Dragon,” he called out cheerfully, “what a pleasant surprise.” It really wasn’t. A bit of forewarning would have been nice. At least Natael would have had time to change. His shirt clashed horribly with al’Thor’s ruby red one. Not to mention the wine stain. And he bet there was hay on his trousers, to top it all. Blood and ashes! He must look like an unwashed beggar. Taim’s dark eyes drifted toward him as he spoke and drilled into Natael, as though the man were trying to read his very soul. Natael nodded to him politely, waiting for al’Thor to introduce them.

The Dragon Reborn obliged. “Master Natael, this is Mazrim Taim. Taim, this is Jasin Natael.”

_Tah-eem? Is that how it’s pronounced?_ Natael had been mentally calling him _Tame_ from the beginning. Thank the Great Lord he hadn’t said it aloud. It would have been awkward. “Pleasure,” Natael said. Taim said nothing. He was still intently studying Natael.

Was his hair tousled? He ran a hand through it quickly. “Ah…perhaps we should discuss in private, my Lord Dragon?” he suggested, gesturing toward the main building, which he’d taken as his own house. Darkness within, how it grated on him to utter those three ridiculous words with every other sentence he used to address al’Thor.

“No need. I’ll make an announcement to all.” He glanced around with a slight frown, as if wondering where everyone was. “Gather your men, will you?”

“That’s…all of them, my Lord.” He pointed to the pitiful group that fidgeted a few paces away, trying very hard not to eavesdrop. Or not to appear to be eavesdropping, in any case. Grady’s wife and his senseless son were coming back from the goat pen, obviously wondering what was going on. Sora Grady’s brow was furrowed.

The Dragon’s blue eyes darkened, but he said nothing. He moved forward so that everyone could see and hear him. “I am the Dragon Reborn,” he declared. Natael held back a snigger. The boy was clearly not used to making speeches. His words almost tripped over each other in their haste to be out of his mouth. Al’Thor’s cheeks heated up in embarrassment at the lack of reaction from the men. He cleared his throat roughly. “I thank you for joining my service. I hope Master Natael has made you feel welcome here.” One of the boys snorted loudly. Natael gave him the evil eye. Thankfully, al’Thor paid him no attention. He was too busy trying not to stutter, it seemed. He gestured toward Taim, who was now looking thoroughly bored, though there was the faintest hint of a smile playing across his lips. “This is Mazrim Taim,” the Dragon went on. That brought out some gasps. If he’d been al’Thor, Natael would have felt envious of the nervous glances the men stole in Taim’s direction. “He will assist Master Natael in the teaching of channeling _saidin_. They will both be in charge of the farm.”

Taim’s head jerked sideways at that, the ghostly smile vanishing in an instant. Natael couldn’t suppress a grimace. _Both_ in charge? What in the Pit of Doom did that mean? Natael was the superior authority here! Surely al’Thor was not implying that that upstart Taim was to be his _equal_? “My Lord Dragon,” Taim began. The words seemed to be dragged out of his throat, and he didn’t appear to enjoy the process. “I’m not quite sure I follow. I thought _I_ was to be in charge of the students?” His voice was calm, but imperious. He was a man used to having his way.

He had some nerve! He’d just arrived, and already assumed he had a right to command everything and everyone, Natael included? He was three hundred years his junior, for pity’s sake! It had to be a misunderstanding. Al’Thor must have misspoken.

The "students" were shuffling awkwardly, unsure whether to stay or leave the three to argue. They’d heard more than they’d wanted, it seemed. “Go back to your training,” Natael barked at them. They scattered like dead leaves in the wind. Al’Thor gave him a strange look, but Natael was undeterred. “My Lord Dragon, we should continue this discussion in private,” he urged him once more.

The boy finally saw sense and nodded, indicating that Natael should lead the way. They settled in the tiny kitchen. Natael didn’t offer anyone a drink. It wasn’t his place to do so. Let Taim serve the wine.

He didn’t, of course. He sat regally on one of the rickety chairs as though it were a throne. Beside him, al’Thor looked like an uncouth, gangly youth. Natael took his place across the table, directly facing Taim.

“I’m the best choice to lead this ragtag…army of yours, al’Thor,” Taim announced without preamble. “Your man here can barely channel a trickle, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“I’m well aware of that, yes,” the boy replied calmly. “He’s not much of a teacher, either.”

“Please, enough praise. You’ll make me blush,” Natael said acidly.

“Then you’ll agree that I’m better suited to see this through,” Taim went on matter-of-factly. “He hasn’t even bothered to-”

“I don’t trust either of you,” al’Thor said bluntly. “And I know you won’t trust each other, or see eye to eye. That’s why I put you both in charge. At least I know you won’t turn against me. You’ll be too busy fighting each other.” He looked ridiculously smug.

Taim stared at him stonily, as if wondering how insane he was, already. Natael imitated him, without really meaning to. The boy’s mental health had certainly not improved in the last month. “My Lord Dragon,” he began hesitantly, not wanting to anger him unnecessarily. “While I understand your concern, I don’t see how-”

“What the _gleeman_ is trying to say,” Taim interrupted him harshly, “is that if we can’t see eye to eye, as you put it, managing the school together will be a near-impossible task. If we have to quibble over every single detail, how are we supposed to progress with the actual training and recruiting? I understand that you wish to assemble a proper army of channelers in a record time, correct?” He raised an eyebrow inquisitively.

Oddly, al’Thor didn’t appear cross at being spoken thus. If Natael had said half those things… And he was a _bard_ , for pity’s sake, not a bloody gleeman! He was about to reprimand the man when the Dragon Reborn spoke. “That is correct, Taim. And I fully expect you two to see that it is done. You will have to make it work.” He stood up, placing the palms of his hands on the table. Sunlight filtered through the window and shone on his hair; it was like watching a burning fire. “We have months before the Last Battle, gentlemen. A year, at most. I want fifty men with basic offensive abilities before the Feast of Lights. Am I making myself clear?” he asked softly.

Natael gaped at him. _Fifty_ _men?_ It was impossible! He had barely managed to scrape five in the last month! How were they supposed to find another forty-five in two months? _And_ train them for battle, what was more! “My Lord Dragon, I cannot give you what doesn’t exist. There are only so many male channelers left alive-”

“It shall be done,” Taim said smoothly, bowing his head a fraction. “Fifty warriors by year’s end.”

Natael turned to him, a snide remark on the tip of his tongue, but al’Thor forestalled him. “I expect weekly reports,” he added. “Natael seems to have forgotten about that.”

“I’ll be sure to remind him,” Taim assured him.

“Good. I’ll be back soon.” Without another word, he turned on his heels and exited the building.

Natael glared at the door, then at Taim. “What in the Pit of Doom do you think-”

“Who are you?”

“Will you stop interrupting me?!” Natael shouted. He sobered up when he replayed the question in his mind. “What do you mean, who am I? We were introduced less than half an hour ago!”

Taim studied him attentively for a moment. His eyes were not quite black, Natael noted, but a very dark shade of brown, with gold flecks around the irises. “The recruits are all stronger than you are,” he mused. “You’re a gleeman, or you pose as one. Al’Thor doesn’t trust you. Why would you be here, if you were not someone important? Someone he wants to keep close at hands, like myself?” Natael remained silent. This was not a good topic of conversation. Al’Thor hadn’t said anything, but Natael suspected that he was to keep his identity secret, even from Taim. “Are you him? Ablar, the False Dragon from Ghealdan?”

Natael laughed, mostly with relief. “Logain Ablar was captured and gentled months ago, Taim. I can channel, lest you forget, and believe me, you had better not underestimate me, no matter how weak you think I am.” He stood up to pour himself a glass of wine. “And I’m no gleeman. I’m the Dragon’s personal court bard. You’d do well to remember that.”

Taim shrugged with affected carelessness. “If you say so. I’ll have some of that wine,” he added imperiously.

Natael was tempted to throw the pitcher in his face but refrained from doing so. Al’Thor wanted them at each other’s throats, but not too much, if that made any sense. Rivals, but not enemies. Associates, but not allies. As he gazed at Taim, proffering the glass of wine he’d so graciously requested, Natael couldn’t help but wonder how long it would take until one of them murdered the other.


	4. What is not forbidden, is allowed

_Quit interrupting_

_I must live while I still can_

_Oops, too late, I’m dead_

Natael took a sip of his wine. “Well then, what do you propose?” he demanded. “Five men, Taim. That’s what I got in a _month_. Why did you go and tell al’Thor that-”

“You haven’t been actively recruiting,” Taim cut in. “You’ve been sitting on your arse, waiting for them to come to you. We need to go to them.”

Natael chuckled darkly. “And how do you imagine that’ll go? ‘Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, but we’re here to steal away your sons, husbands and brothers to build the Dragon’s army. Oh, and by the way, they’ll probably go mad before they get the opportunity to actually participate in any battle.’” He sneered. “These people are terrified of male channelers. They consider them – us – cursed, dangerous, contagious even. Even if a boy suspects he might have the spark, or simply wishes for the chance to prove himself in combat for a noble cause, do you really believe he’ll step forward where everybody can see?” He held Taim’s gaze. “And if you interrupt me again, there’ll be pain,” he promised.

Taim gave him that ghostly half-smile that was already beginning to irk him greatly. “We won’t be welcome,” he admitted. “Not at first. Not in most places. But in time-”

“In time they’ll stop being afraid of you and simply start stoning you as soon as you appear,” Natael asserted. “Besides, al’Thor clearly stated that we were not to leave the farm. I have been waiting for the applicants to show up because that’s what I was ordered to do.”

Taim frowned. “He forbade us to leave the farm? He didn’t mention that to me.”

“Well, I’m telling you now. We’ll have to take them as they come, and now you’ve gone and promised him forty-five men. What were you thinking? There may not even _be_ forty-five channelers in the world!”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Taim said offhandedly. “I’ve come across dozens of them, out there in the Blight.”

“The Blight? What were you doing in the Blight?” Natael asked faintly. He’d known Aginor personally. Most of his…inventions were the stuff of nightmares, and many of them were said to still haunt the Blight in present days.

“Practicing my weaves,” he replied tersely. “Unlike al’Thor, I had no mentor, competent or not. I taught myself everything I know.”

That couldn’t be much, then. If he was as ignorant as the farm boy had been, when Natael first met him… Although Taim had been quite successful as a false Dragon, if rumours could be believed. He’d wreaked havoc in his native Saldaea and might have done a lot more damage if al’Thor hadn’t declared himself the Dragon Reborn, thus causing the Pattern to strike down all other pretenders. Natael would do well not to underestimate him.

Taim looked as though he’d read his mind. His almost-smile widened a fraction. “I think we can both agree that I’ll make a better teacher. Perhaps you should take care of the more…menial tasks. We’ll need supplies, after all. And when more men arrive, we’ll need to house them somewhere.”

Who did he take Natael for? His butler? A common janitor? Then a thought struck him. “House. Yes. About that.” He gestured at the kitchen. “I’ve taken this building for myself,” he explained. “You’ll need to stay in the barn with the recruits.” He allowed himself a satisfied smirk.

Taim eyed him flatly. “I’ll sleep there tonight, certainly. I’ve slept in worse conditions.” If he’d wandered along the Blight, he probably had indeed. “Tomorrow I’ll start working on a house for myself,” he went on, swirling the wine in his glass. “It’ll be good practice for the students.”

Natael blinked. “You’re going to have them build you a house?”

“Why not? As I said, we’ll need to house several dozen men in the future.”

“Yes, you keep saying that, but I’m telling you, there simply aren’t that many male channelers. The Red Ajah has been quite efficient in hunting them down, it seems, and it’s not uncommon for men who discover they can channel to off themselves.” Now that he was subject to the taint and doomed to go mad like the rest of them, Natael could see the appeal in that, though suicide was quite…extreme; it would be a last resort solution. But perhaps he’d change his mind when the madness came creeping in and he began to rot. “You claim to have encountered several in the Blight, but were they practicing, as you were, or seeking their death?” For that matter, was Taim truly there to teach himself how to wield _saidin_ , as he claimed?

“For one thing, you seem to forget that channelers won’t necessarily display any ability to channel outwardly. Those who can be taught, but weren’t born with the spark, will probably live out their lives without ever knowing it. Those are the ones we must look for in priority, since they’ll have been overlooked by the witches. And as for _them_ ,” he continued with a grimace of distaste, “they are not quite as proficient as you seem to think. Why, in Saldaea alone, I knew of fourteen men who escaped their notice.” He paused. “Of course, they all went mad eventually, but at least they died on their own terms.”

“How come _you’re_ not mad?” Natael demanded. “You’re…what, twenty-five, thirty?” Taim made a non-committal grunt. “How long have you been channeling, Taim? Five years? More?”

“I could return the question, you know,” he countered. “You’re older than I am, clearly.”

Clearly? What was _that_ supposed to mean? He looked barely a day over thirty!

Taim chuckled. “Your face is a display of emotions for all to read, Master Natael. You must be a terrible liar.” He waved at him dismissively. “I don’t know why I’m still sane, to tell you the truth. Luck? Fate? Perhaps the Pattern has other plans for me. I’m much more concerned about al’Thor’s sanity than about my own, in any case.”

“You noticed it, too?” Natael asked quietly. Taim nodded. “He mutters an awful lot, doesn’t he?”

“I distinctly heard him converse with ‘Lews Therin’,” Taim concurred. “How long until he loses his mind completely, do you think? He claims that Tarmon Gai’don is upon us. Months, he said. Does he really have that long?” The man appeared genuinely worried, although, unlike Natael, his face wasn’t an open book. A slight crinkling around the eyes, a minute tightening of the lips. Natael might be terrible at keeping a straight face, but he could read people like no one else.

“I couldn’t say. I’ve never witnessed it, you know,” Natael told him earnestly. “A man going mad from the taint.” It was the simple truth. He wasn’t around when the Great Lord cursed _saidin_ and, as far as he knew, al’Thor was the only male channeler he’d encountered before coming to the farm. He’d read much about it, however, and certainly didn’t look forward to witnessing it, let alone suffering from it. But it would happen sooner or later, whether he liked or not.

“I have,” Taim murmured. “One of them was a friend.” He didn’t expand on the matter, but cleared his throat roughly. “I understand what he wants us to do. An army of male channelers, I get the idea. But if they go mad before they even set foot on a battlefield, what good does it do him? Or, Light preserve us, what if they lose their minds while fighting? They could turn on us. They could decimate us, or accidentally kill _him_. And then what?” He spread his hands.

“I’ve had the same thought,” Natael admitted. “And I couldn’t find a satisfying answer.”

“I might have, but…” Taim shook his head. “That’s impossible. Not even he could pull that off.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What if he somehow cleansed _saidin_ of the taint?” Taim said, a glimmer of hope sparkling in his dark eyes.

Natael stared at him. Light, was he mad, as well? Blood and ashes!

“I know, I know,” Taim said with a bitter chuckle. “I know how it sounds. But unless he’s already lost his mind, that must be his plan, don’t you think? Otherwise, anything we achieve here is utterly pointless.”

Well…it did make sense. But it couldn’t be done, surely. The Great Lord himself had tainted _saidin_. Not even the Dragon Reborn could cleanse it. Not even with Callandor. Although the boy did possess the access key to…

“It sounds crazy, doesn’t it?” Taim said with a sigh. “Well, be that as it may. I suppose we’ll have to be careful with our recruits, that’s all. And if they present a danger to themselves, or to others, we’ll have to…dispose of them.”

He was certainly practical. Natael wondered if he’d done it before – disposing of a madman, that was. That “friend” of his, perhaps? “I’ll leave that to you. If you’re going to be in charge of tutoring them, that’s on you,” he told the other man with a smirk. That’ll teach him to impose his ideas without preliminary discussion. Taim’s face remained impassive. “I still don’t know how you intend to recruit forty-five men before the end of the year,” Natael pointed out. “Considering that we have orders not to leave the farm,” he reminded Taim.

“Al’Thor will have to see reason,” Taim said. “I’ll talk to him, when he next visits. Or perhaps I’ll pay him a visit myself. More men will come, in any case. It takes time for word of the amnesty to reach abroad, but they’ll come, eventually. In the meantime, we should focus on training the few pupils you’ve gathered. What exactly have you taught them, so far?” Natael shrugged lightly and explained that he’d demonstrated how to carry out domestic chores. Taim regarded him sternly. “And? That’s it?” He snorted in disbelief. “Soldiers indeed. What are they supposed to do? Fight off Trollocs with brooms?” He stood up abruptly and started pacing. “They’ve been idle for too long. They’ve lost a whole month of proper training, thanks to you,” Taim scolded him.

Natael was about to give a scathing retort, but someone rapped on the door, three sharp knocks in rapid succession. He sighed in annoyance. What now? “Come in,” he barked.

The door opened and revealed a handsome young man with golden hair. Taim scowled at him. “What is it?” Natael had to refrain from repeating the question, which he’d been about to ask himself. He closed his mouth with an audible click and threw Taim a dirty look.

The newcomer grinned at them both in turn. He had perfect dentition, a wonder in this barbarian age. “I was told to find Master Natael,” he announced brashly. His voice was surprisingly deep. “I’d like to enrol in the Dragon’s army.”

Natael snorted. “Not so fast, lad. We take in channelers, not soldiers.” He certainly had the stature of a soldier: tall and lean, but quite muscular. Quite pleasing to the eyes, too, not that it was relevant. “You’ll have to pass the test-”

“I can channel,” he broke in. “I can’t control it, but it’s happened before. That’s why I ran away from home and decided to join you, when I heard about the amnesty,” he explained haltingly.

Natael cared little for backstories, and even less for being rudely interrupted. “Yes, well, I’ll be the judge of that,” he snapped.

“Can you seize _saidin_?” Taim asked calmly.

“I…” The lad hesitated. “Not intentionally,” he admitted. “Things have happened when I was…angry. Or upset. Or…um…” He didn’t finish his thought.

Taim nodded. “Natael here will instruct you. I’ll take over your lessons once you’ve mastered that particular skill.” Natael stared at him as he deposited his empty glass on the table. “In the meantime, if you’ll excuse me, I must see to the other students. They are in dire need of proper discipline,” he added with a faint grimace. Without another word, he edged past the lad and closed the door behind him with a weave of Air.

* * *

Natael inhaled deeply in an attempt to calm himself. Taim wouldn’t live long if he kept ordering him about. Al’Thor had made it quite clear that they were _both_ in charge; that meant that they were on equal footing. Taim was _not_ his superior. Not in any way.

With a huff of exasperation, he glanced at the lad, who stood near the cold hearth. He didn’t look at all uncomfortable; on the contrary, he seemed to consider taking a seat at the table, edging forward as discreetly as possible.

Well, they might as well sit, Natael reflected. He took a chair for himself and indicated the one opposite him. The lad took it gratefully.

Now that Taim was gone, Natael took some time to study the young man. His golden hair was tangled and dirty, though he’d obviously made an effort to smooth it before entering. His clothes – cheap peasant trousers and a plain shirt, a simple traveling cloak – were threadbare and dusty. His face was a bit gaunt. He smelled like someone who hadn’t bathed in a week or more. He would have to get acquainted with a bucket of water before Natael could attempt to teach him anything. “What’s your name, lad?” he asked eventually, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“Mishraile. Atal Mishraile.” He gave Natael a winning smile, blue eyes sparkling. Natael found himself wanting to return it, but refrained from doing so. He had to detach himself from the recruits, no matter how handsome they may be.

Mishraile was most likely Andoran, if he’d reached the farm on foot after hearing of the amnesty. Not that Natael cared. “I’m afraid my…associate was rather impolite. His name is Mazrim Taim, and I’m-”

Mishraile gasped loudly, his eyes trying to escape their orbits. “ _The_ Mazrim Taim? The False Dragon from Saldaea?”

If not for the weeks he’d spent as al’Thor’s captive, which had taught him, if nothing else, to remain cool and patient under all circumstances, Natael would have likely bashed the lad’s head with one of the chairs. Did the people of this age knew _nothing_ of manners? He wasn’t asking for much, for the Great Lord’s sake! Wasn’t it basic civility _not_ to interrupt your elders? He did his best to school his features, painfully aware of Taim’s earlier remark that his face was an open book. “Indeed,” he said curtly. “And I am Master Natael, Court Bard of the Lord Dragon.”

Mishraile frowned slightly. “You’re a…bard?” He said the word as though he’d never encountered it.

Natael could almost _hear_ his nerves fraying. “I am.” He cleared his throat. “You should wash up. Have a proper meal. The lesson can wait. Find Sora Grady. She’ll know what to do with you.”

“Could I also, um, take a nap? Just an hour or so,” he added quickly, with a bright, slightly abashed grin. “I’ve been on the road for weeks. I’m exhausted. My lord.”

_My lord_. Now, that was better. Natael eyed him critically. The lad did look like he could use some rest. If Natael tried to teach him to seize _saidin_ now, it would likely be a frustrating, chaotic mess. “Very well. You have two hours. Sora will show you to your…” ‘Bed’ was a stretch. The recruits slept on piles of hay in the barn. “…she’ll show you where to sleep.”

Mishraile nodded his thanks, stood and moved toward the door. Before he could stop himself, Natael called after him just as the lad placed his hand on the knob. “Or you could wash up quickly and then come back to sleep in a proper bed. There’s one upstairs.”

Oh, bother. What in the Pit of Doom…? The madness must be upon him. Though to be fair, his earlier encounter with Taim and al’Thor had left him discontented, to say the least. He could use some…distraction.

Mishraile turned around slowly, a smile spreading across his face. His blue eyes glinted mischievously.

* * *

“Will you focus?” Natael chided Atal without heat. “It won’t work if you’re distracted.”

They were in the kitchen once more, drinking wine as Natael attempted to educate the younger man. The “nap” had lasted over four hours; it was about time they set to the task Taim had so bossily assigned to Natael earlier.

Atal grinned. “It’s difficult not to be distracted when you’re not wearing a shirt,” he pointed out. Well, he wasn’t wearing one, either. After laundering it quite thoroughly, Sora had insisted that his shirt needed sewing – or, ideally, replacing. Natael would go to Caemlyn on the morrow to find something more appropriate for Atal to wear. He was far too gorgeous to wear a tattered, faded shirt. Though he did look good without one. He’d tried one of Natael’s, but Atal had much broader shoulders. Natael was hardly scrawny, but the lad was more muscular than he appeared when he had clothes on.

Now _he_ was getting distracted. Enough on the subject of Atal’s strapping body. Natael took a sip of wine; it was quite terrible, but it was one of the best to be had in this primitive Age. Seizing _saidin_ , he summoned another flame. “Concentrate on the flame. Empty your mind. Seek the Oneness.”

Atal’s smile vanished as he renewed the experience – it was already the third time. They’d tried it once while still in bed, but that had proven impossible. They’d quickly ended up-

No! Focus, burn you! If he wavered, Atal would notice that the flame was flickering and lose his concentration.

And, as the saying went, the third time was the charm. Atal was suddenly filled with _saidin_. He grimaced, though his eyes were slightly glazed. A combination of awe toward the power pulsing through him and distaste at the taint, Natael surmised. Atal was quite powerful, he noted. He would make a fine addition to their sparse ranks. He smirked. “You were much quicker in bed,” he teased the lad.

Atal didn’t smile back. He seemed completely absorbed in his own thoughts. “I’d almost forgotten how sickening it was,” he murmured. “Every time it happened, I kept hoping that the power would overwhelm the sensation that the taint was insinuating itself in my brain, slowly driving me mad.”

“Yes, well. That’s how it is. You can’t have one without the other,” Natael stated pragmatically. He didn’t want to even think about the taint right now. After such an enjoyable afternoon, couldn’t they talk about something else than the ineluctable madness that threatened them both?

There was a knock on the door. Natael barely had time to register it before the door opened. He didn’t even wonder who it might be; none of the recruits would dare to enter without his permission. Taim strode in purposefully, but stopped in his tracks when he took in the scene. To his credit, his expression remained carefully guarded. His dark eyes casually rested on Atal’s bare back for a second before moving on to Natael’s face. “A word?” he enquired flatly.

Natael cleared his throat. “Atal, if you’ll-”

He was already on his feet. He eyed Taim with a combination of uneasiness, wonder and fear and bowed deeply. “My lord,” he muttered as he nearly ran for the door.

Taim raised an eyebrow in his direction before focusing his attention on Natael. “I suppose I don’t need to tell you that this is highly…unprofessional,” he said.

Natael cursed himself mentally as, to his greatest dismay, he blushed. Taim’s not-quite-smile appeared on cue. Unprofessional? Burn him! He was a grown man, he could do as he bloody well pleased! “You’re the tutor,” he retorted sweetly. “I’m just here to take care of the more…menial tasks.”

Taim scoffed. “I don’t think this can be considered as a ‘task’, Natael. And for peace’s sake, he’s just a boy. How old is he? 18? 20?”

“And just how old do you think I am, exactly?” Well, he was over three hundred years old, but Taim wasn’t supposed to know that. Besides, it certainly didn’t _show_.

Taim stared at him. “That’s hardly the point. You can’t bed the recruits, Natael. It’s not proper.”

“Proper?” Natael exclaimed. “The people of this-” This time he cut himself off. He’d been about to say ‘Age’. He took a deep breath. “Sorry to break it to you, Taim, and to shatter your innocence, but some men like to bed other men,” he said wryly.

Taim rolled his eyes. “I’m _Saldaean,_ you lummox. I assure you, I know more about sex than you will ever know. I don’t care about the _gender_ of the people you sleep with, I only wish you wouldn’t bed my pupils! Is that too much to ask?”

“Well, considering we’re stuck here, and that the only available people are your pupils, yes, that would be a problem,” Natael replied acidly. What was he supposed to do? Stay chaste until the Last Battle?

“Trolloc balls,” Taim muttered. Huh. That was a new one. Natael carefully stored it for later use. “You have no consideration for anyone but your own little person, do you?” he spat out angrily. “You spineless, cock-driven idiot.”

Natael gaped at him. The _nerve_ of the man! If he only knew whom he was truly addressing… No. He couldn’t tell Taim. Al’Thor would have his hide – provided that Taim didn’t blast him to pieces first. He didn’t have a chance to reply, however.

“I agree wholeheartedly,” a deep voice concurred, seemingly out of nowhere.

A glacial shiver ran down Natael’s spine. He knew that voice. He didn’t need to look around to know whom it belonged to, but he did so anyway. He was standing in the shadows of the dining room, a part of the darkness itself, quiet and deadly as a Myrddraal. How long had he been there?

_It hardly matters,_ Natael thought derisively. That was it. He was a dead man.


	5. Sometimes the only choice is between bad and worse

_Barid Bel Medar_

_The almost handsome Chosen_

_So terrifying_

Demandred took a step forward, his tall, muscular frame filling the doorway. He looked imposing and menacing without even trying. Another shudder ran through Natael. He had only briefly encountered the other Chosen since awakening from the Bore. Demandred looked swarthier than he remembered, which caused Natael to wonder where he’d settled. Somewhere sunny, apparently, but that could be many places, especially given the current, unnatural heatwave.

Natael was tempted to go with a casual “long-time-no-see” phrase when Taim spoke up. Natael had almost forgotten that he was there. “You certainly didn’t waste any time,” he remarked coolly.

Natael glanced at him in surprise. Did they know each other? “I beg your pardon?” Demandred said. For a mass-murdering psychopath, he had always been quite polite.

In any case, they apparently did not know each other. Demandred’s almost-handsome face was a mask, but it was clear that he had no inkling what Taim was going on about. “Why,” the Saldaean went on, “I’ve been here for less than a day and you’re already trying to recruit me.” Demandred did scowl at that. So did Natael. “You’re one of _them_ , aren’t you?” Taim asked with affected carelessness. “A Forsaken.”

Demandred regained his composure, smoothing his features. “Kneeling is usually considered appropriate, when one is in the presence of one of the Great Lord’s Chosen.”

Taim, of course, did no such thing. “Which one are you?” he mused. “I want to say…Demandred? Sammael is supposed to be much shorter than any of us here, and the other men are all dead, according to al’Thor.” That was mostly accurate, as far as Natael knew, except for one obvious exception.

If Taim didn’t shut up soon, Natael realised, Demandred would disintegrate him where he stood. The Chosen had no patience for witty banter. “Yes, well, you hit the mark, Taim,” Natael broke in. He did his best to smile dazzlingly at the intruder. “Barid Bel. How good of you to visit.” Natael had a feeling that, if Demandred had been sent to kill him, he would be dead already. This simple fact boosted his confidence. “You should have sent word ahead. I would have had some poisoned wine prepared, as is customary.”

Demandred rolled his eyes. “This is no courtesy call, Nessosin.” Taim started at that, but he wisely kept his mouth shut. “I could have killed you thrice since I arrived,” he said without inflection whatsoever. Was that supposed to be a threat? Natael almost snorted. The man hardly needed to spell out threats to be menacing.

“There are two of us,” Taim pointed out. Natael was tempted to knock him out cold, but it was too late. “And only one of you.” Natael slapped his forehead as Taim embraced _saidin_. Great Lord, Light, Creator help him. Didn’t the man possess any instinct of self-preservation?

Taim weaved Air and Fire, but Demandred was faster. He’d likely been holding the Source from the start and masking the fact, something of which Taim seemed blithely unaware. Demandred dodged easily and sent him sprawling with a nonchalant thread of Earth intertwined with Fire. “Too slow, boy. Too clumsy. You have much to learn.” He didn’t sound angry. Vaguely irritated, perhaps, as though Taim were a persistent mosquito he couldn’t quite get rid of. “I can teach you. Everything you’ve always wanted to know, and more besides.”

So Taim was right; Demandred had come to recruit him. If so, why not wait for the man to be alone? Was he going to kill Natael in a gruesome fashion, as a demonstration of his might, in an attempt to entice Taim with the appeal of power? Demandred turned his eyes on Natael after fastening threads of Air around Taim and shielding him. “As for you…Natael, it seems you have been given a second chance.”

“I…I have?” The nearly-imperceptible grimace of contempt told Natael that it hadn’t been Demandred’s idea. A second chance. Could it truly be? Natael dared not hope. The Great Lord was not known for his forgiving and merciful nature.

Demandred nodded absently. “For reasons unknown to me,” he went on, “I am told that, if you prove yourself worthy in this endeavour, the Great Lord shall welcome you back amongst us. He shall restore you to your former strength and…status.”

“Endeavour?” Natael repeated. He didn’t like the sound of that.

“It is nothing more than what Lews Therin has demanded of you, really. You are to assemble an army of male channelers and train them in the martial arts. Then you are to Turn them to the Great Lord’s will. Whether they agree to it or not is irrelevant.”

Turning? He wanted Natael to Turn _every single man_ who would join al’Thor’s army? It was impossible. The Dragon was bound to notice, for one thing and, for another, they didn’t have the resources, far from it. Where were they supposed to find thirteen Black Ajah Aes Sedai and how were they supposed to smuggle them-

Was he really considering it? Well, he’d be a fool to refuse such an unexpected boon, but… He glanced at Taim. His dark eyes flashed with humiliation and rage. He appeared to be gagged as well as bound.

“The same offer goes for you, Taim,” Demandred went on when Natael remained silent. “Become a Dreadlord now and earn your chance to be promoted in the future. You have great potential, I can tell. In due time, you could be one of us.” He took another step forward and crouched gracefully to level his eyes with Taim’s. “Immortality. Limitless power. Everlasting sanity. You would never have to struggle against the taint again, Taim,” he murmured engagingly.

As Demandred unfastened the _saidin_ -woven gag, Natael expected Taim to fly into a furious rant. Instead, the younger man took a deep breath before speaking. “And if I refuse?” he asked quietly.

Demandred stood, unfurling his long limbs to better stare down at Taim’s immobile form. “You shall die,” he replied simply. He was a man of few words. “And then you shall rise again, and serve the Great Lord nonetheless. It would be a shame to waste that quick wit of yours, but if you should choose to live on as a mindless lackey, so be it.”

Natael’s brow furrowed deeply. Rise again? That was new. Was he really implying…resurrection? Had the Great Lord recuperated sufficient strength to affect the Pattern so markedly?

“Very well,” Taim said unconcernedly. “I take the deal. Now would you please be so kind, Great Master, as to release me from this uncomfortable position? My back hurts.”

Natael stared at him. Just like that, he’d agreed to it? To forsake the Light, to give his soul to the Great Lord? Natael had pondered on it for _years_ before taking Ishamael up on his offer. Well, to be fair, he’d had the luxury to ponder for years. That was not Taim’s case.

Nor his, not this time, he realised as Demandred turned to face him once more. Taim stumbled to his feet like a drunkard and massaged the small of his back, cursing under his breath. He wouldn’t quite meet Natael’s eyes.

Well, what had he expected of a False Dragon, of a man who had ravaged his native land? He’d known the man for just a few hours but he already knew that Taim was ambitious and prideful. He’d expected more resistance, though, he had to admit. Perhaps Natael wasn’t such a good judge of character after all.

Demandred’s stony gaze was fixed upon him. Natael cleared his throat, which felt dry as dust. He would most certainly need wine, when this unfortunate episode was over. “I… Of course, yes. I’ll do anything. I live to serve,” he stammered meekly.

Demandred smirked, as if he’d expected nothing else. “We shall speak again of Turning, once you have gathered enough candidates. I give you six months, but I will be back before that, rest assured.” He eyed Taim appraisingly. “You must swear an oath.” Taim acquiesced. Demandred handed him a Binding Rod and told him what to say, and Taim diligently parroted him. The Saldaean’s face was impassive.

Demandred finally nodded in satisfaction. “It is done. Well, you have your orders. I expect results,” he told them sternly. Without another word, he wove a gateway and stepped into a white room. Natael stretched his neck, trying to get a better look, but all he glimpsed was an impeccably organised desk. Then the gateway closed.

Natael looked at the spot where Demandred had just vanished in wonder. “He didn’t make me swear the oath,” he marvelled. Demandred couldn’t be that oblivious, surely. Was this a trick?

Taim regarded him strangely. “Why would he? You’re already one of them, aren’t you? I mean, you _are_ Asmodean, correct? Nessosin, that was your former name.”

Natael nodded. “Correct indeed, but al’Thor severed my link to the Great Lord,” he explained. “I doubt that my oath still holds. I’ve given away many secrets to the boy, which shouldn’t be possible.”

Taim was silent for a moment. Then, against all odds, he laughed. “Then we have a major advantage over your old pal, Barid Bel…Whatever. We can still turn this around.”

“But… You barely hesitated! I assumed…”

“That I would serve the Dark One and its incompetent minions?” Taim sniggered. “I think not.”

“But you took the oath, Taim. You can never take it back.” If there was a way, he didn’t know it, save what had happened to Natael – but that wouldn’t work with Taim. He was a mere Dreadlord, not one of the Chosen. Not yet.

“Of course I can take it back. We just need to obtain one of those…rod thingies and reverse the process.” Oh. Natael had not considered that option. Still, it was easier said than done. Binding Rods did not grow on trees, especially those attuned to men. “Anyway, what was I supposed to do?” Taim asked with an air of supreme annoyance. “He had me shielded and bound. I picked the option that wouldn’t get me killed, that’s all. It’s common sense.”

“So…you _don’t_ want to become one of the Chosen? To live forever? To retain your sanity? To-”

“No, no and no. I mean, yes, I do want to remain sane, but not at all costs.” He levelled his gaze with Natael. They were almost the same height; Taim was perhaps half an inch taller. “Do you?”

Natael hesitated. He thought he did…up until the very moment Demandred had stepped out of the shadows. Seeing his arrogant face had brought up a bitter resentment he didn’t know he felt. For years Natael had been the black sheep, mocked at every turn by his peers. He was a coward, he was useless. He had no special talent except for his music. He was no general, no mastermind. Was this his chance to show them who he truly was?

On the other hand… Did al’Thor deserve his faith and trust? The boy was going mad already. But that was just the point, wasn’t it?

“We have to make certain that the Dragon Reborn triumphs,” Natael murmured. “If he dies, or loses his mind… We’re all doomed. The Light _has_ to prevail.” Natael didn’t care much about either the Light or the Shadow; he never had. But if the Shadow – if the Great Lord – had the upper hand in the battle to come, He would break the world.

Although al’Thor was supposed to do that, too. It was quite the conundrum.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Taim said. “How you could ever be so foolish, I’ll never understand.”

Natael’s head snapped up. “What?”

“How could you believe in promises made by an entity known as ‘The Dark One’? Or the Great Lord, it hardly matters. Does that really inspire trust and mindless devotion?” He seemed genuinely puzzled.

Well, when he put it like that… “I didn’t… I cared little about the Great Lord. I was in for the everlasting life and fame. And I got it, didn’t I?”

Taim snorted. “You’re infamous, certainly, but no one remembers your music, if that’s what you were hoping for. Look at you now. Demoted to nothing, forced to prove yourself all over again. And for what? There is only one place at the Dark One’s side. Only one of the Forsaken will make it, in the end. Did you really expect to be that person?”

He’d never really thought about that, but it was true that the Chosen were meant to be rivals just as they were supposed to be allies. He had never trusted any of them and they reciprocated the feeling. Some of them he quite frankly despised. His brief partnership with Lanfear had not been his idea, obviously. But for a chance to get the access key, he had agreed to put up with the blasted woman, though her personality was as rotten as her face was beautiful.

Natael’s head was beginning to hurt. Too much happening at once. He got up to pour himself another glass of wine. He badly needed one. His hands shook slightly as he lifted the pitcher.

He heard Taim exhale heavily behind him. “You’ve made several wrong decisions in your life, Natael. But we can still turn this to our advantage. This is your chance at redemption. _Our_ chance.”

“What do you have to redeem yourself for?” Natael asked as he turned around.

Taim gave him a blank stare. “The destruction of a large part of Saldaea and the death of hundreds of innocents in my futile campaign to become the Dragon Reborn?” he suggested. “The cold-blooded murder of four Red Ajah Aes Sedai as I escaped?”

“How _did_ you escape?” Natael wondered.

Taim waved the question aside. “A moment of inattention on their part.”

Right. Simple as that, eh? There had to be more to it, but Natael decided not to press the matter. “What do we do, then? Warn al’Thor?”

Taim frowned darkly. “No, I don’t think that would be wise, given his…delicate mental health.” He started pacing, arms behind his back. “The boy gave us two months, and Demandred gave us six. I suggest that we go on as planned – recruit and train the men. Then we hope that al’Thor somehow comes up with something to counter the effects of the taint, and if he doesn’t…” He stopped in his tracks and glanced at Natael. His eyes shone brightly. He looked like someone who’d just had an epiphany. “We should gather our own army.”

“To protect ourselves against the Chosen, or against al’Thor?”

“Both,” Taim said. “Why pick a side now? The Forsaken are currently overwhelmed. Al’Thor has offed…what, six of them? And he’s tamed you.”

Tamed? Tamed! Natael could feel his face burn with anger – and perhaps humiliation. “I’m not…!” He huffed in exasperation. “Now that you know who I am, do you really feel it’s safe for you to say things like that where I can hear them?”

Taim’s face never changed, except for that thrice-cursed half-smile, which chose that moment to resurface. “You’re here, aren’t you?” He shrugged. “Forget about that. What I meant to say was that we should gather the army, as planned, and only decide what to do with them…later. Say, six months from now. If al’Thor goes berserk, we hunt him down and kill him, before he can break the world. Then we go after the Forsaken. Save those who can be saved. If the Dragon somehow pulls through… Then we come clean and stand with him against the Forsaken in the Last Battle.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Natael muttered.

“It won’t be easy. It will be bloody hard. You can bet we’ll have spies crawling in every nook and cranny and Darkfriends disguised as allies all over the place. It will be the most difficult thing either of us has ever done, and it might kill us.”

He fixed Natael with ominous eyes. “But it’ll be worth it, if no one ends up breaking the world.”


	6. No lollygagging!

_Silky shirts are cool,_

_I am not taking the cart_

_You need to chill, dude_

“Ooh, look at this one!” Natael exclaimed. He touched the silk, caressing the smooth material. It was good quality, he could tell. As was to be expected. This was the tailor shop where he’d had most of his own clothes sewn, after they’d removed Rahvin from his seat of power. It was a bit on the expensive side, but Natael wasn’t paying for anything himself, after all. That had to be the one perk to his ordeal: al’Thor had given them a very large budget for any expense they deemed necessary.

Well, Atal needed new clothes. That was a necessary expense, no doubt about it. And the colour would bring out the azure blue of his eyes.

Taim pinched his hooked nose. “What are we doing here, Natael? You said you had important business to see to in this part of the city.”

“Our recruits require proper clothing, Taim. Clothes are a reflection of the character of the person wearing them. It _is_ important business.”

The Saldaean rolled his eyes. “You have exactly five minutes to purchase whatever you think you need to dress up your...” He trailed off, then waved in annoyance. “Five minutes, then I’m leaving, with or without you.”

They had come to Caemlyn on this fine day to approach the Dragon Reborn on the matter of actively recruiting outside of the farm. Al’Thor had sternly denied Taim’s request to use gateways. It wouldn’t be safe, he claimed. Natael thought that Taim had presented a correct argumentation, but nothing got through to al'Thor. The Dragon had eventually snapped and told them to go about their business and leave him alone.

Natael would have gladly wandered around the shops for hours, but he needed Taim to open the gateway that would bring him back to the farm – he was presently too weak to do it himself. His only alternative would be to take the cart that brought their potential recruits every day and Natael wasn’t too fond of the idea. Sharing a cart with a bunch of smelly peasants for over an hour? No, thank you.

“I thought I told you that your…relationship with the boy was not appropriate, Natael,” Taim went on as Natael inspected the rest of the merchandise. Surely Taim wouldn’t really leave him behind if he dawdled. He wouldn’t dare. “And yet I caught him coming out of your house this morning.”

Natael pretended not to hear. Instead, he caught the tailor to haggle the prices. That was something he’d always been good at: negotiating. Ishamael had recruited him for that very purpose – well, that and his undisputable musical talent, obviously.

At least that’s what he’d told Natael.

He managed to lower the price by a suitable amount. Satisfied, he turned to Taim. The man’s measurements were close enough to Atal’s, who hadn’t been allowed to come himself. Taim had the recruits working hard, mainly on building him his own house. The bloody man was incredibly self-centred.

And he was gone.

Natael stared at the spot where Taim had stood barely…what, two minutes ago? He looked around, past the throngs of guards and elegantly dressed nobles with their retinues of servants. Perhaps Taim had spotted a nice shirt for himself. He had a good fashion sense, but his clothes were not adequate for one of his station. He should wear more silk. And more colours. And a bit of lace.

Natael told the tailor to wait for him and walked up the street, head swivelling in all directions. Surely he hadn’t _dared_ -

“Are you done yet?” Taim’s voice enquired from behind him.

Natael started and glared at the man. He carried a hefty package under one arm. His face was expressionless, as usual, save for that infuriating smile of his. This time it looked more like a smirk. “I need your measurements,” he said testily. “Come with me.” He turned on his heels and returned to the tailor’s without looking back to see if Taim was following.

“I have enough clothes, Natael,” Taim muttered. “I don’t need you to buy me-”

Natael sniggered. “Buy _you_ clothes? Darkness within, why would I do that?” The tailor gasped at the curse and Taim threw Natael a warning glance. Oh. Right. He smiled brightly. “As I stated before, they are for Atal. He just happens to be about your size. Therefore, if you would be so kind as to-”

“I would not,” Taim retorted scornfully. “I have better things to do with my time, Natael. Now, are you coming back with me, or would you prefer to wait for the cart?”

Natael had to restrain himself from strangling the man. “Fine.” He turned to the tailor, whose face had gone an odd shade of green. All that, just for a minor, temporary lapse? Weakling. “Give me the silk, as we discussed. I’ll have Sora sew the shirts for Atal.” She was quite skilled, for an untrained farmer’s wife, but Natael would have preferred that the tailor made them himself. Oh well. It would be cheaper this way.

The tailor didn’t need to be told twice. Within a few minutes the material was carefully wrapped, the money changed hands, and Taim and Natael were making their way toward a secluded alley. It wouldn’t do to open a gateway in the middle of Caemlyn. Despite the amnesty, men channeling where anyone could see would still cause quite a commotion.

As they walked swiftly through the streets – Natael, though he was about Taim’s height, had trouble keeping up with the Saldaean’s long strides – he couldn’t help but glare at the package under Taim’s arm. “What is that? I hope those aren’t clothes. If you didn’t leave me enough time to purchase my own, it’s not fair for you to-”

Taim didn’t spare him a glance and forged ahead without slowing down. “I had them fitted the other day, when I arrived in Caemlyn. I was just picking them up.” His voice hardened. “And I told you that you had five minutes. I patiently waited for _ten_ minutes, gave up, and it was another twenty minutes before I found you wandering the streets helplessly, looking for me like a small child who’s lost his mother.”

He was exaggerating. It hadn’t been _that_ long. Surely. And he was _not_ helpless. And would he bloody well stop interrupting-

“You need to be focused on what’s important, Natael. And by the way, I could have used your help, earlier, to convince al’Thor,” Taim went on bitingly.

Now he was even interrupting his thoughts! Burn the man! “It was your idea,” he retorted. “I only came along so I could visit the tailor.”

They had reached a street with little passage. Taim stopped walking and turned to face him. His expression didn’t give away much, but his lips were pursed, his jaw was clenched. His eyes flashed with anger. “You will have to reassess your priorities, _bard_.” He said the word with so much scorn that his voice nearly cracked with it. “We have a mission. We can’t waste our time or resources on frivolities. And I _told_ you to put an end to whatever you and Mishraile are up to. He’s been here two days. We have no idea whether or not he’s trustworthy. For all we know, he’s one of Demandred’s spies. We can’t have him snooping around.”

“Are you sure you’re not simply jealous?” Natael enquired innocently.

Taim’s gaze went blank. “Is this all a game, to you?” he asked softly. “Do you have any idea what’s at stake here? Do you realise what will happen if we fail?”

Natael shrugged. “Atal and I don’t exactly spend our time together _talking_ , if you get my meaning. He’s not going to learn anything from me, I can assure you.”

Taim was now obviously struggling to keep his temper. “Regardless, you shouldn’t be messing around with the students, Natael. How do you think the others will see it? It’s favouritism. It will cause dissension in the ranks.”

Natael scoffed. “The ranks? Taim, we have six men. Six! Even if the others have a problem with it, what can they do? Rebel against us? Stage a coup, plan a revolt?” Taim was being ridiculous. “We’re in charge. What we do is none of their business, whether or not it involves other students. Besides, we’re both consenting adults. It’s not like I’m taking advantage of my position to make Atal do anything he's not comfortable with.”

“I strongly disagree,” Taim insisted. “This senseless fling is sapping your authority. Not that you had much to begin with,” he amended with a twist of his mouth.

“What do you care? It’s my problem, not yours. And it’s not even true,” Natael said stubbornly. “They think very highly of me. I got them this far without your help, didn’t I?”

“And what do you have to show for this month-long mentorship?” Taim countered. “Five men who can sweep dust with a weave of Air and start fires they can’t control. It’s no wonder al’Thor is going mad, if he had you as a tutor for several weeks. You’re useless.”

That was the last straw. He’d been called every variation of _useless_ for too long. “You think you can do better than me, you boorish philistine? You know _nothing_! Did you know that you could mask your ability to channel, as Demandred did? That-”

“I can?” Taim asked, obviously surprised.

Natael threw his hands in the air. “I’m going back to the palace,” he announced. “I’m going to tell al’Thor everything, and he can deal with you as he pleases. I can’t do this. You’re impossible.” He turned on his heels and walked toward the palace with determination.

He was nearly at the end of the street when he realised that Taim wasn’t trying to stop him. Natael chanced a glance over his shoulder.

Taim was gone.

* * *

Natael looked around. Burn him for a fool! Taim could Travel as he pleased. He must have gone to the palace to warn al’Thor – he wouldn’t put it past the Saldaean to claim that Natael had lost his mind and attempt to discredit him.

Darkness within! What to do now? Should he run away? And go where? Demandred would find him sooner or later, or one of the others would. Graendal may come back for him, if she learned that Asmodean had betrayed the Chosen, or intended to. Natael shuddered at the thought. The idea of becoming one of Graendal’s pets was unnerving, but knowing that he may have to deal with Semirhage instead was nearly enough to send him reeling.

“Are you quite done throwing a tantrum like a spoiled infant?”

Natael jumped a foot into the air and turned to glare at Taim. The bloody man was lounging against a wall in a nearby alley, shrouded in darkness. He had never left at all. Natael seized _saidin_ , by mere reflex.

Taim scoffed. “And what do you intend to do now, pray tell? You may have the years of experience on your side, but I am far more powerful, gleeman. Do you really wish to find out if old age will prevail over the arrogance of youth?” That cursed half-smile was back in place. Burn him! Burn it all!

Taim took a few leisurely steps forward, hands behind his back. He hadn’t even taken hold of the Source. “I could kill you, Natael. It would be as easy as crushing a gnat between my fingers.” He gestured to demonstrate, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together. “I could have killed you a hundred times in the few days I’ve known you and blamed the deed on the Forsaken. Or I could have claimed that you’d run away, gone like a thief in the night. Al’Thor would have accepted either explanation without flinching, don’t you think?” he asked with mock nonchalance. “He expects you to betray him. He always will.”

Natael sniggered. “He doesn’t trust you anymore than he trusts me.”

“Which is why neither of us will go to him. He played us both quite masterfully, I must admit. To force us to share the leadership of the school, that was brilliant.” School? Was it what they were calling the farm, now? “Perhaps he was hoping to subtly get rid of us – one or both, I cannot say.”

“Subtlety is not exactly al’Thor’s cup of tea,” Natael mumbled.

Taim chuckled softly, and it sent a shiver down Natael’s spine, though he wasn’t sure why. “Indeed. He is a fool. He has much to learn, and too little time to do so. And he has dispatched the only two people who might have helped him, out of sheer paranoia. He fears us. You, because of your obvious connection to his enemies. And myself, because I attempted to steal his thunder,” he went on with a self-deprecating smirk. “He knows that I am as strong as he is, or near enough, and that I have years of practice on him. As for you…” He cut off abruptly, frowning. “My people told me what happened in Cairhien, with Lanfear.” His people? What did he mean by that? His former allies, followers of a failed False Dragon? Where were they now? Natael stored the questions away for later consideration. “If she was the one to shield you, and she died in the attack…”

“She’s not dead,” Natael admitted. “She must be stuck in Sindhol.”

“Sindhol?” Taim repeated questioningly.

“The realm of the Finn,” Natael explained dismissively. At Taim’s scowl, however, he added, “The Aelfinn and Eelfinn? The Snakes and Foxes? Darkness within, you are so blithely ignorant.”

“I assumed… The Finn are real, then?”

“Of course they are. But that’s not important. The point is that-”

“Not _important_? Does al’Thor know that Lanfear still lives?” Taim demanded imperiously. “Does he not wonder why your shield has not been lifted?”

Natael shrugged. “He never mentioned it.”

“Myrddraal tits!” Taim cursed. “And you tell me this now? He has to know! What if she comes back? He’ll never see it coming!”

Natael’s mind was still trying to wrap itself around the words ‘Myrddraal tits’. What did that even _mean_? Myrddraal did not have… He shook his head in an attempt to dispel the disturbing images the expression called for. “She’s as good as dead, Taim. No one escapes that place. Not even one as ruthless and diabolical as Lanfear.”

The Saldaean eyed him doubtfully. “We should at least warn him. The thought obviously hasn’t crossed his mind. Which is a testimony of how far gone he already is. Were I him, I would have shielded you the moment Lanfear disappeared through the portal. Better safe than sorry.”

“Anyone with a sound mind would have,” Natael agreed reluctantly.

“Perhaps he doesn’t fear you as much as I imagined, then,” Taim stated.

That hit too close to the mark. Natael found it unbelievably unflattering to be thus dismissed. He was a dangerous man, burn the Dragon! He was one of the Chosen! Even shielded, he could-

Taim was smiling knowingly, as though he’d read Natael’s thoughts. He was tempted to wipe it off his handsome face with a thread of Fire intertwined with Air – he was still holding on to _saidin_ , despite the foulness of the taint – but he was unsure how Taim might react. Taim’s weaving was crude, a sure way to advertise the fact that he had received no formal training, but he was fast and vicious. The weave he’d attempted to direct at Demandred, the other day… It would have made Semirhage proud. And knocked Demandred out cold, perhaps even killed the bloody Chosen, if it had reached its intended target.

Natael breathed out slowly. He had to get a hold of himself. The bloody man was getting on his nerves, but he had no choice but to work with him. They were in this together. There could be no turning back now. They were two against the world, whether they liked it or not. “I’d like to point out that al'Thor didn’t shield you, either,” Natael muttered.

“I didn’t give him a chance to do so,” Taim replied haughtily. “Now if you’re done with your time-wasting bickering, are you ready to head home?” Home? That was even more bizarre than calling it a school. “Or did you forget to purchase a decorative hat to dress up your Atal doll?”

Natael lashed out with the Power without even thinking about what he was doing but, just as the weave formed, Taim opened a gateway between them. Natael’s weave dissolved as it hit the wrong end of the gateway. “Well, you made your choice,” Taim said briskly as he stepped inside the gateway. “Have a pleasant ride in the cart.”

“Why, you-!” The gateway winked out of existence before he could formulate a proper sentence that would convey what he thought of Taim at that moment.


	7. A lovingly prepared breakfast

_Turns out he was right_

_But don’t tell him I said that_

_Let me eat in peace_

Natael came down the stairs, scratching his budding beard and yawning. Glancing out the window, he noticed that the sun was already high in the sky.

It was surprising that Taim hadn’t come banging on his door to wake him at dawn, as he’d done the previous days. Natael had complained, of course, but Taim claimed that they had to set an example for the recruits. They needed discipline and blah blah blah… That was usually when Natael stopped listening to the lecture. He always took his time getting ready and was never out of the house before noon, no matter how early Taim came knocking. They were _equals_ , burn the man. Taim had no right ordering him about like the peasants they were instructing – or were trying to instruct.

Natael nearly tripped over his own feet when he realised that there was someone in the kitchen. Nobody would dare, except Taim or one of the Chosen-

It was Atal. He seemed to be…cooking. “What in the Pit of Doom are you doing here?” Natael demanded, hands on his hips.

Atal, dressed in one of the shirts Natael had had fitted for him, a gorgeous periwinkle thing with lace in all the right places, glanced in his direction, a lazy grin slowly spreading on his youthful face. “Morning, sunshine,” he greeted Natael brightly. “I’m making breakfast.”

Natael pinched the bridge of his nose as Atal returned his attention to the frying pan. “Mishraile,” he said crisply, “we’ve talked about this. I told you that we couldn’t-”

“You said that _Taim_ had forbidden it,” he corrected Natael. Natael sniffed. He hadn’t said that; Taim had no authority over him. Natael had simply judged it best to put an end to this meaningless fling. He’d come to that decision entirely on his own. “He won’t know if we don’t tell him,” Atal added mischievously.

“Curse you, we’ve been through this! It’s…unethical.” Atal glanced over his shoulder, frowning at the word. Natael sighed. “It’s _wrong_ , Mishraile.” Hopefully using his last name and the resulting lack of familiarity would help him understand. “Just as I explained yesterday, when you caught me unaware in the latrines, and just as I did the day before that.”

“But I…I thought you were joking. That you were pretending to reject me in front of Taim, or just playing hard to get. I thought you _wanted_ this. You bought me silk shirts!” he said plaintively.

“And I said you were welcome to keep them,” Natael said with all the patience he could muster. Burn Taim, but he had been right all along. Atal was following him around like an affectionate puppy; it was annoying and quite a bit embarrassing. The others had started to notice. Natael had to put an end to it once and for all before it degenerated. “But this…” – he gestured at the both of them – “this was a mistake, Mishraile. We can’t-”

There was a sharp knock on the door. Natael glared at it. His life had become a long series of rude interruptions, it seemed. “Come in,” he called resignedly.

Flinn opened the door a fraction and peered inside the house hesitantly.

“What is it? Is there a problem?” Natael demanded.

Flinn cleared his throat. He looked uncomfortable. “Um, Master Taim is looking for the lad, my lord. Mishraile, I mean,” he added with a jerk of his bald pate toward Atal.

“He’ll be right with you,” Natael assured the old soldier, who nodded before closing the door.

Natael rounded on Atal. “You didn’t even bother to excuse yourself from class?”

“I did!” Atal exclaimed. “I told Taim that I wasn’t feeling well, that I needed some rest…”

“And then you went straight to my place. It’s a small farm, Mishraile. Did you really believe that Taim wouldn’t notice you sneaking into my kitchen? The man’s a lot of things, but he’s neither blind nor stupid.”

“Well I… I just wanted to…” Atal stuttered.

“Get out.” The lad hesitated. Darkness within! If Natael had been any stronger in the Power, he’d have seized _saidin_ and made Atal flee in terror but, weak as he was, it was more likely to make him laugh in pity. “Get. Out. Now!” Natael growled at him.

A moment later, Natael was blissfully alone with some delicious smelling bacon. He shrugged, then settled at the kitchen table. It would be a shame to let the food go to waste.

As he put the first bit of meat into his mouth, the door banged open. Natael swallowed reflexively and nearly choked. He glowered at Taim. “I sent the lad away, burn you! I swear, I told him to stop coming here, but he’s just too bloody smitten and stubb-”

“Shave and get dressed, you indolent twit,” Taim snapped. “Al’Thor is here. Chop-chop!” He was gone before Natael could respond.

Ugh. When would the bloody sheepherder learn to send word of his arrival?

Natael wondered if this impromptu visit had anything to do with the report they’d sent the previous evening – the report that Taim had written and that Natael had co-signed with barely a glance at the too-numerous words. It was just another plea in favour of Travelling to recruit channelers, amidst the dozen others that Taim had sent in the past few days. Perhaps the boy had finally seen sense, given the low number of recruits they’d gathered thus far.

As it turned out, that was indeed the purpose of al’Thor’s presence on this improbably warm autumn day. When the boy gave him permission to use gateways to recruit outside the farm, Taim had trouble holding back a smug smile, Natael could tell, but he doubted that al’Thor noticed. His mind seemed very far away and he only stayed for a few minutes, departing after insisting on shaking the hand of the newest recruit, Jonan Adley, who’d apparently arrived that very morning from Caemlyn.

Taim allowed himself a satisfied smile once the Dragon was gone, then barked a rough “Back to work!” at the students. They didn’t need to be told twice…except Flinn, who lingered behind. He was obviously nervous, fidgeting with the pommel of his sword, which never left his side, but he held his ground as Taim studied him with narrowed eyes. “Yes, Flinn?” he asked softly.

“My lord, respectfully, I have no problem working on that house of yours – I’m sure we’ll need more lodgings soon anyway – but would it be possible, perhaps…” He trailed off, shifting slightly, though his gaze never wavered. “Are you at all familiar with Healing, my lord?” he finally blurted out.

Natael huffed in annoyance. “I told you, Flinn, Healing is not for beginners. It requires skill beyond what you-”

“I do have notions, yes,” Taim cut in smoothly. There it was again, Natael thought. Idly, he wondered if he’d be able to finish a sentence ever again. “I can show you what I know, but I’m afraid Healing is not my strongest ability.”

Flinn seemed to be struck speechless for a moment, but he recovered quickly. “You would?” Forgetting who he had in front of him, Flinn clasped Taim’s shoulder in his excitement. The Saldaean’s face never changed, but Flinn’s hand jerked back as if he’d been shocked. “I, um, thank you, Lord Taim.”

Natael scoffed loudly. _Lord Taim?_ Really? Taim’s dark eyes shot him a warning glance, and Flinn clearly noticed it. The older man cleared his throat. “I’ll, um, go back to work, then.” He gestured toward the slowly rising walls of what would soon become Taim’s new residence, bowed swiftly and nearly fled, his limp almost forgotten in his haste to get away from them.

“Do _not_ ,” Taim hissed, “ever do this again in front of one of the recruits. Especially Flinn.”

“You cannot be serious,” Natael retorted, incredulity tingeing his voice. “You just challenged my authority in front of him! And now you’re complaining that I mocked that ludicrous title he’s suddenly decided to give you?”

“I did not-” Taim cut off, closed his eyes and inhaled deeply before reopening them. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have done that. Not like that. I…apologise.”

Natael gaped slightly, but the moment was over too quickly.

“But you were wrong to refuse to teach him even basic Healing. We have no Healers, and I meant what I said. I have very little skill in that area. But you must know more than I do, surely, as one of the mighty Chosen.” Taim’s trademark smirk made an appearance.

“Why do you think I turned him down, you fool?” Natael snarled. “Even were I well-versed in Healing, I cannot demonstrate the weaves.”

Taim’s smile vanished. “Is it really that bad?”

“It is, if you must know,” he replied through gritted teeth. “Everyone here outmatches me. How do you think that makes me feel?” He exhaled harshly. As if Taim cared how Natael felt. “Al’Thor is punishing me, for some reason. He had to know that I would be useless. He knew I would fail, and then he’d have the perfect excuse to have me executed-”

“Will you stop that nonsense? Al’Thor has a brain the size of a chickpea, Natael. I doubt that he considered any of that. He didn’t even think to make certain that your shield was still in place. If anyone’s useless, it’s him.” Natael stared at him, and Taim appeared to realise what he’d just said. He masked a clearly faked cough behind one hand. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have much to see to. Go back to your lovingly prepared breakfast, why don’t you?” he added wryly as he turned and walked away.

Natael smiled after him and decided to do just that.


	8. I heard a rumour

_I heard a rumour_

_That I’m a bloody weakling_

_I want a new coat_

“Master Natael, sir?” a small voice called hesitantly. Natael turned around, frowning, then glanced down. It was Gadren Grady, the foolish boy who’d disturbed a wasp nest in the barn a few weeks ago.

“What is it?”

“Is it true that my Da is stronger in the Power than you are?”

Natael stared at the lad. What in the Pit of Doom-? Jur must have been bragging to his son to make himself appear more formidable than he was, which was not at all. It must be a thing that fathers did. Proper fathers. “Nonsense is what it is,” he said sharply. “Better tell your father that he oughtn’t make such ridiculous claims. And you certainly shouldn’t be spreading them.” If the boy had known whom he was addressing, Natael’s glower would have been enough to send him running back to his senseless father, crying and shaking in terror. Unfortunately, he was merely “Master Natael” here – though he was still in charge, burn the lad. A bit of respect wouldn’t go amiss.

“But sir, it wasn’t Da who said so,” Gadren insisted.

Natael waited for the child to reveal the name of the culprit, but of course he was going to make Natael ask for it. Curse children! “Who told you this preposterous lie?” he demanded through gritted teeth.

Gadren leaned forward and spoke in a low voice, though there was no one else in sight. “It was Atal. He told us all at dinner last evening.”

Natael felt a shiver slowly crawling up his spine. He wouldn’t dare…! “Mishraile is new here,” he said briskly. “He knows nothing. You be sure to tell everyone that.” Gadren blinked, but he remained silent and stood there like a street lamp – except that the boy wasn’t quite as bright as a street lamp. “Go on now, shoo,” Natael added, gesturing for the lad to leave him alone.

Finally, his two neurons connected and he departed at a run. Natael gazed after him and, when he was certain that the boy was out of earshot, he let out a groan of annoyance, kicking at a clump of dirt. Atal would have to be appropriately punished for this. How did he even know how weak Natael was? He was always careful to mask his ability to channel around the students.

Ah. Except perhaps that first day… Natael may have been slightly…distracted. Darkness within!

He took a deep breath to calm himself. Nobody was likely to believe Atal – he was brash and boastful; the adults would certainly dismiss him. And Gadren was only a child. No one ever listened to children, except other children, but Natael couldn’t care less what the brats thought of him. They weren’t under his responsibility. He’d made that perfectly clear when Sora had begged to stay with her husband.

Ugh! Taim would give him that almost-smile of his when he found out, Natael was certain. He frowned suddenly. Where _was_ Taim?

As if the thought had summoned him out of thin air, Taim stepped out of a gateway just inches from where Natael stood. Burn the man! “What do you think you’re doing?” Natael hissed at him. Taim arched an eyebrow in his direction. “You could have killed me with that gateway, you idiot! You can’t just materialise wherever you bloody want. Pick a spot that’s likely devoid of people. Don’t you have any sense at all?”

Taim was gazing at him, hands behind his back, patiently waiting until Natael finished his rant. “None of my students have any reason to be standing idly by in this area at this time of day,” he said flatly. “And lest you’ve forgotten, let me remind you that this is the designated spot for homebound gateways." Natael glanced down and noticed a spot marked with an X. Oh, right. "Also, you ought to be working on the ledgers, not wander the grounds aimlessly. If you insist on bailing out of educating the men, it’s the least you can do. We've talked about this, Natael. We must share in the chores. I’m only one man.”

_Ledgers_ , Natael fumed. _Share in the chores._ They weren’t a married couple, and he wasn’t Taim’s bloody lackey! Besides, he didn’t have a head for numbers. If Natael took care of the ledgers, they’d be bankrupt by the end of the month. He was an administrator, not a mathematician. He’d already explained this to Taim, but the man was irritatingly stubborn. “You were gone a long time,” he muttered eventually. “What happened?”

“Well, if you must know, I just saved al’Thor’s skin. A Grey Man attempted to kill him.”

“Was it gratifying? Did the lad congratulate you warmly and offered to give you titles and lands he doesn’t own? Did you share a bottle of wine to celebrate this glorious victory over the minions of the-”

Taim’s face darkened. “Oh, do shut up. He seemed quite…displeased. He wanted to interrogate the creature,” he added with a sneer. “As if it would yield anything of import, provided that al’Thor could even get it to talk, which I doubt.”

Natael opened his mouth to say something, but the words eluded him when he noticed Taim’s coat.

It wasn’t the one he’d been wearing when he left. It was brand new, black as coal, with embroidery on the sleeves. Embroidered…dragons? Natael blinked, then looked up at Taim in astonishment. “What in the Pit of Doom is that? Did al’Thor give it to you?”

Taim snorted contemptuously. “Of course not. I had it made in Caemlyn. That’s why I was gone so long; I went to pick it up at the shop and had to haggle the price with that weasel of a tailor.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway. Where-”

“Are you out of your bloody mind? Taim, while I can acknowledge the quality of this new, completely unnecessary expense,” Natael said wryly, “I doubt that al’Thor will appreciate the flaming _dragons_ that decorate it.” He shook his head. “What were you thinking?”

Taim shrugged, not a hint of shame or regret on his handsome face. “It seemed appropriate. I am his official representative here, at the farm, and it will hold the people’s attention when I go recruiting outside of Andor.”

“I’m not entirely certain that it will get you the right kind of attention,” Natael grumbled. “And what about me?”

“What about you? You’ve had a dozen shirts custom-fitted for you and you have enough coats to last even a channeler a lifetime. I only have two coats and three shirts. Don’t whine to me about unnecessary expenses.”

Natael huffed in frustration. “What I meant,” he said acidly, “is that I should have dragons embroidered on my own coats as well. We’re _both_ in charge here, remember?”

“And yet I’m the one people consider as the true leader of the school.” Taim’s expression was carefully blank, but there was just a hint of that cursed smile on his lips.

“I don’t know where you’ve heard that, but-”

“Everyone knows it, Natael. The men, their wives, their children… In Caemlyn, people refer to me as al’Thor’s second-in-command.” That couldn’t possibly be true. He was making this up. “They don’t see you as a leader. They think of you as the…janitor. If that.” He chuckled. “A janitor usually works.”

_Janitor?_ “Take me to Caemlyn right this moment,” he commanded.

Taim’s smile was firmly in place now. “Or what? No, Natael. If you want an upgraded coat, you will have to work for it. Keep the ledgers in order, write your reports on schedule, then perhaps I will consider it.”

“This is ridiculous. I could order any of the men to open a gateway for me. I don’t need you.”

“And what will they make of it, I wonder? The great Natael cannot weave his own gateways? Is he too weak, or too lazy?”

Oh, blast. That reminded him. “Mishraile already took care of this, it appears,” he said, jaw clenched. “He’s been spreading rumours about my…limited strength in the Power.”

Taim’s smile was almost…cruel. “It’s not a rumour, Natael. It’s a fact.”

Natael’s eyes widened. “You-! This was your idea? I told you this in confidence. And you just-” He made an unrefined sound, between a growl and a whine.

“Mishraile asked me some pertinent questions and I gave him honest answers, nothing more. That is part of my duty as his tutor, is it not? He wished to learn how to gauge another channeler’s strength and he also wanted to know which of us was the more powerful.” When he said “us”, Taim gestured at the two of them. “I couldn’t help but laugh,” he admitted without an ounce of remorse.

“You’ve ruined my reputation,” Natael complained. “I was wondering why they were sniggering at me…” More than usual, anyway. “It’s all your bloody fault. I thought we were working together, burn you!”

“Oh, we are. But every team needs a properly defined leader, even a team of two. I am superior to you, Natael. I have the strength, the charisma, and al’Thor trusts me a good deal more than he trusts you. Why, even your former…associates are prone to trust me rather than you. After all, I never betrayed them.” He leaned closer to Natael and spoke in a low murmur. “Remember this, bard: if you screw me over, I can, and _will_ , destroy you.”

Natael glowered at Taim’s back as the other man walked away at a leisurely pace. It was always like that with him. One day Taim very nearly praised him, the next he threatened to murder him for no apparent reason. Was he mad? It certainly wasn’t mere moodiness. Had the taint finally breached that thick skull of his and contaminated his brain? There was no way to know for sure; as far as Natael knew, Taim had always been a whimsical pain in the arse.

Only time would tell.


	9. Ain't no passing craze

_Al’Thor is the worst_

_The pins clash with my pink shirt_

_Hand me the_ medan

Natael usually did his best not to emulate Taim in any way – it was the younger man who ought to emulate _him_ – but at the moment they were both unhappily brooding. Fuming, even. They sat in Natael’s kitchen, untouched mugs of cooling tea in front of them. Natael wanted wine, but Taim had insisted that they should be sober to discuss this...delicate matter.

This bloody fiasco, in Natael's opinion. “What in the Pit of Doom was he _thinking_?” he muttered for the umpteenth time.

He expected a biting retort from Taim, but the man chose to further attack al’Thor’s attitude. “What an utter fool! Does he have any idea how it made us look? The obviously surprised, disapproving expressions on our faces, the stupid _pins_ he forced us to wear…” He cut off in a huff, then started rambling again. “Does he think of us as children? Grown men don’t wear pins, burn him!”

“It was insulting,” Natael concurred. “Demeaning. He has no respect for anything or anyone. I told you that. He’s not the innocent farmboy he pretends to be, not anymore.”

Taim scoffed. “You think he did it on purpose, to humiliate us in front of the men?” He shook his head. “Judging by his reaction when he finally deigned to acknowledge our existence, after that pitiful speech, I daresay that he expected gratitude and approbation. He seemed genuinely shocked by our murderous expressions. You give him too much credit, Natael. The boy is clueless. He seriously believed that he was doing us a favour, and I’ll go as far as to say that he hoped it would make up for his continued absence and lack of assistance thus far in the training of our recruits.” Our _recruits?_ Natael thought. Taim was doing all the recruiting himself – with the help of a few…Asha’man, as they were now called – and usually refrained from involving Natael in any activity that concerned the students. Why was he suddenly in such a sharing mood? Perhaps their common animosity toward al’Thor had accidentally brought them closer together.

Not that Natael wanted to get closer to Taim, of course. Their forced cohabitation at the farm was already a nuisance. He sighed with exaggerated force and took a sip of his tea, which had grown lukewarm. He seized _saidin_ , heating the liquid. That was one thing he could still manage on his own, at least. “Can you pass me the…” His mind drew a blank. “Um, you know, the…” By the blood falls! What was it called? He pointed toward the cursed thing. It was right there on the table, and Taim glanced at it, an amused smirk on his lips. “ _Medan_?” Natael went on tentatively.

“Su-gar,” Taim said with excessive emphasis on each syllable, as though he were teaching a particularly dense toddler a new word. He didn’t even move to grab the sugar bowl and pass it on as requested.

“You think you’re so smart, uh?” Natael said crossly, standing up to take the sugar himself and pouring a generous amount in his mug. “It’s easy for you. You were born speaking the language. _I_ , on the other hand, had to master it in _weeks_. Without proper tutelage. Can you claim any such mastery of what you ignorant savages call the ‘Old Tongue’?” he went on with a sneer.

He noted with satisfaction that Taim wasn’t smiling anymore. “No one speaks the Old Tongue any longer, Natael. Why should I need to master its usage? I have notions of it, and that’s quite enough for anyone who is neither a scholar nor a Brown Ajah sister.”

Before Natael could think of a reply, Taim went on, looking thoughtful. “But speaking of the Old Tongue, perhaps we can yet turn al’Thor’s horrifying blunder to our advantage.”

Natael frowned. “What do you have in mind?” Taim occasionally had good ideas, but others were somewhat…edgy. Dangerous, even.

“As leaders, we must distinguish ourselves from our students. We cannot be mere Asha’man, the rank that several of them will eventually attain.” He glanced at Natael. “We should give ourselves titles.”

On a scale of one to ten, ten being the most subversive idea, this was an easy eight, perhaps a nine. Al’Thor definitely wouldn’t approve. Then again, why should they care if he did? He hadn’t bothered to inform them of _his_ ridiculous idea, let alone to ask for their opinion. This would give him a taste of his own medicine. Natael could certainly agree to that.

The sudden change in Taim’s attitude made him suspicious, however. Barely a week ago, the man was threatening to kill him if Natael became too ambitious; now he was making a show of giving him equal footing in the leadership of the farm?

Or "Black Tower", as many of the recruits had taken to calling it. Taim had hesitated, at first. It had seemed outrageously provocative, even to him. But Taim was the one who’d made everyone wear black. The connection to the White Tower, which could have been made even without the new uniforms, had been glaringly obvious after that. They were the anti-White Tower; its opposite, its male counterpart.

“ _M’Hael_ ,” Taim said after a moment, breaking the silence.

Natael stared at him. Was he serious? It was sometimes difficult to tell. The man usually delivered his snarky, sarcastic comments deadpan. The word _m’hael_ stood for “leader” – that was acceptable, given Taim’s position – but, capitalised, as any title should be, the word took on a subtler meaning. An appropriate translation would be Supreme Leader. Was Taim aware of that, or was his relative ignorance of the language playing in his favour?

Either way, al’Thor certainly wouldn’t approve. Natael himself wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

“It means-” Taim began to say, but for once Natael was the one doing the interrupting.

“I know what it means, you nimrod. I just reminded you that the Old Tongue was my native language. Though the Great Lord knows you’ve butchered it,” he grumbled. Their pronunciation was usually horrendous. Admittedly, it made sense – no one alive had ever heard it spoken by a native. “Are you sure about this, Taim? Al’Thor…”

“Al’Thor can go throw himself off World’s End,” he retorted moodily. Blast, he really was furious. He was fidgeting with one of his pins. Natael was surprised that he hadn’t removed them the second al’Thor had departed. “The boy is insane. He would be doing us all a favour.” Taim sipped some of his tea, which must have gone cold by now, though that didn’t seem to bother him. Being Saldaean, perhaps he was used to drinking cold beverages. The weather was said to be dreadfully glacial in these parts. “What about you, Natael? Is there a word for ‘janitor’ in the Old Tongue?” he said with a hint of a smile, referring to their conversation of the previous week.

Natael didn’t deign to acknowledge the clumsy trait of humour. “If you wish to be the _M’Hael_ , I shall be the _Ghraem_.”

Taim scowled. Natael could see that he was mentally going through his “notions” of the Old Tongue to find a translation to match the word. Taim would only ask in last resort; he was too proud to ask without bothering to try to come up with the answer himself first. “Something about…power,” he muttered to himself.

“It means ‘the All-Powerful’,” Natael said smugly.

“You’re joking,” Taim scoffed.

“It is fitting.”

“It’s the opposite of fitting. You’re the weakest channeler here and everyone knows it, thanks to Mishraile.”

Thanks to Taim, in truth, but Natael let it slide. “Which is why it’s fitting!” he insisted. “It will make them wonder if Atal wasn’t merely slandering me after I rejected him. It will cast doubt. They won’t dare mock me.” At least not to his face.

Taim was staring at him, his face blank. “That doesn’t make any sense. Have you gone mad, like al’Thor? Should I prepare a vial of asping rot to sneak into your tea?” This time, Natael could tell that Taim was merely jesting. At least, he hoped he was. A slow smile spread across Taim’s lips. “No. If you do go mad, I’ll just send you to al’Thor. He can deal with you himself. I don’t want the _karma_ of your death on my soul.”

“ _Karma_?” Natael repeated. It meant…action, or deed, in the Old Tongue. But what did Taim mean by that?

Taim waved dismissively. “It’s a Saldaean thing. Never mind that, Ghraem.” His smile widened slightly. Despite his earlier remark, he seemed to find the name to his taste.

“As you say, M’Hael,” Natael replied, smiling back.


	10. Trust is the sound of betrayal in the dark

_Let’s pick our allies_

_Narishma is too pretty_

_It is distracting_

“Are you quite sure that we can trust them to build that wall on their own?” Natael asked after taking a sip of wine. It wasn’t _good_ – no vintage of this unrefined Age truly was – but it didn’t make him gag, either. It would have to do.

“For the tenth time, yes,” Taim said with unconcealed exasperation. “I’m fairly certain that Hardlin, as a master stonemason, knows more about building walls than either of us. We’ll inspect their progress in the morning light, but I have no doubt that they’re doing a good job. Why, they built my house in a matter of days, did they not? And it hasn’t yet fallen apart.”

_House?_ Natael scoffed internally. Taim had asked for a bloody _palace_. Meanwhile, Natael was stuck in his minuscule cottage and Taim refused to order a new construction. Supposedly, the men had more important things to do, such as raising this futile wall – as if a physical wall could stop an army of determined Aes Sedai – and the rest of their training. And yet wasn’t Taim the one who constantly claimed that accomplishing _any_ task with _saidin_ was good practice? Natael was of a mind to command the men himself and oversee the making of his new lodgings, but he didn’t like the way most of the men had sneered when he announced his new title the previous day. Taim, burn him, hadn’t received such disrespectful remarks and grimaces. It wasn’t fair.

Taim waved the matter aside, as though it wasn’t worth his precious time. “What about Mishraile?” he asked, glancing at the sheet of parchment in front of him. They’d only checked half a dozen names so far, and only one – the only sensible one, in Natael’s opinion – had made it to the top of the list: Damer Flinn. “I know things are…awkward between you two, but he _is_ strong and capable.”

“If Atal’s not a Friend of the Dark yet, he’ll become one soon,” Natael muttered.

“Nonsense. He’s young and brash, it’s true, but his heart is in the right place. He’s not Darkfriend material, unless you insist on antagonising him. He’ll make a decent Asha’man, I think.”

Natael sighed in annoyance. The candidates they selected to be appointed Asha’man would be told _everything_. Their plans for the Black Tower, their reluctance to fully trust and support al’Thor, their connection to Demandred and their strategy to work around it…and Natael’s true identity, which would include knowledge of his shield and consequent weakness in the Power. He was fine with Flinn knowing, but Atal? The lad was a nuisance. Taim had eventually convinced him to stop spreading rumours about Natael, but Atal still glared at him whenever he had the chance and he didn’t respect Natael in the least. He even had the audacity to flirt with _Taim_ , of all people! The audacity, or rather the idiocy. He must have gone mad. Taim always ignored the not-so-subtle banter in public, but he never failed to tease Natael about it when they were alone. _Your heartbroken puppy made another pass at me today, in a desperate attempt to make you jealous. Did you even notice?_ Natael had told Taim to simply discipline the lad to make him stop once and for all, but Taim found it amusing. It was pathetic, really, but still enjoyable to watch, according to Taim.

And yet M’Hael, Supreme Leader of the Black Tower, insisted that Atal would make a great addition to the ranks of their trustworthy advanced guard. Natael thought that it was ridiculous. “You just want him in our inner circle so he can humiliate me further,” he complained.

Taim rolled his eyes. “I assure you, Natael, I’m quite serious about this. As should you. This is important work; it will determine the future of the Black Tower, perhaps the future of mankind itself.”

“You’re being overdramatic,” he scoffed.

Taim raised an eyebrow. “Am I? These men we choose to trust will be our first line of defence. They will be in charge of spreading the word of the corruption of the Black Tower, should it ever fall in the hands of the Forsaken, and should they attempt to Turn our other recruits to the Shadow.”

Natael snorted. “If we leave out the men who present a risk of being…susceptible to the appeal of the Shadow from the rank of Asha’man, these recruits won’t require Turning. If the Chosen – if Demandred – realises what we’re doing, we’ll find ourselves vastly outnumbered.”

“Our men will be better prepared. We will give them advanced lessons, teach them the Shadow’s tricks and how to counter them.”

“Easier said than done,” Natael said sourly.

Taim massaged his temples. They’d only reviewed six recruits and they’d been at this for over two hours. They couldn’t seem to agree on anything, except Flinn’s imminent promotion. “How about we begin by ruling out the men who obviously cannot be trusted?”

“If you wish, but we’ll be facing a problem, no matter how we proceed,” Natael said.

“What’s that?” Taim asked with a frown.

“There will be powerful channelers among the ones we decide to set aside,” he said. They’d already discarded Manel Rochaid, an otherwise promising student; despite his strength in the Power, the man didn’t inspire trust. He was ambitious, cunning, ruthless: qualities that Natael would have appreciated in a minion of the Shadow, but the opposite of what they were presently looking for. “How will you explain that we’re refusing to promote them?”

“They’ll do as they’re told and if they can’t accept being mere Dedicated, they’ll be thrown out. We’re in charge, not them. We will simply assert our authority. Or rather, _my_ authority.”

Natael exhaled a long breath and ignored the jab. “I meant: how will you explain this to al’Thor, or Demandred, when they come monitoring our progress? Don’t you think it’ll look suspicious?”

For once, Taim didn’t seem to have an answer at the ready. He thought it over for a moment, idly swishing his glass of wine, though he hadn’t taken a sip from it yet. “We could say that…we prefer to give the dragon pin to the more mature men, the more deserving ones, not necessarily the most powerful.”

Natael smirked. “That will likely be convincing enough for al’Thor, but Demandred will never buy it. Never underestimate any of the Chosen, Demandred least of all. You can bet he already has several spies among the men.”

“Is there a way to distinguish the spies from the rest? Do they bear a mark, are they subjected to a weave?”

“Of course not,” Natael replied. “Some of the Chosen are less subtle than others, but they’re not stupid.”

“So there’s no way of knowing who might be reporting to our enemies?”

Natael shook his head. “When I recruited underlings for myself, I rarely revealed my true identity. Most people care more about money than about anything else. Though fear is a good incentive, when promises of wealth fail. But even if we somehow manage to recruit only loyal Asha’man, there’s still a chance that they will become Friends of the Dark _after_ we’ve let them in on our plans and secrets. Then we’ll be doomed.”

“Yes, well, we don’t have much choice, do we? We need at least a few trustworthy elements. We’ll just have to make sure that they remain loyal to _us_ , and no one else. Not even al’Thor.”

“I suppose we could spread rumours of his incipient madness,” Natael suggested. “We wouldn’t even be lying.”

“Perhaps,” Taim said indifferently. “That’s a discussion for later, when we’ve actually determined which men to raise as Asha’man.” He perused the paper once again, tapping his quill against the inkpot, then smiled. “Narishma.”

Natael cocked his head to the side, concentrating. “Is that the pretty one?”

“That’s hardly his most prominent feature, but yes, he’s the _pretty one_.”

"And what would you say is Narishma's most prominent feature, then?" Natael asked with a grin.

“What?” Taim's eyes widened when he finally realised that his words might give rise to confusion. Natael’s day was made when Taim actually _blushed_. “Burn you,” he muttered. “He’s the most powerful recruit we’ve taken in so far. That’s what I meant. Obviously.”

Natael chuckled wryly. “Obviously.”

“You’re really not taking this seriously, are you?” Taim said with marked annoyance.

“Fine, fine. Why him? He hasn’t been here for long, has he?”

“The vast majority of our students were recruited recently, after al’Thor finally gave us permission to Travel,” Taim pointed out. “Narishma could become nearly as strong as I am, when he reaches his full potential. It would be good to have him on our side.”

“But does he seem trustworthy?”

“Yes,” Taim stated plainly.

“Prettiness is not synonymous with trustworthiness, Taim.”

The Saldaean threw him a venomous look. “How callous do you think I am? It doesn’t matter what he looks like. He’s a good lad. Everyone likes him.”

“Especially the women, I’ll wager,” Natael said in a snide tone.

Taim groaned. “Perhaps we should work on this later. You’re clearly enthralled by Narishma’s physical appearance and are not in a fit state to focus on the matter at hand.” He paused, closing his eyes for a moment, then glanced at Natael. “Please tell me you have no intention of bedding him.”

Natael stiffened. “I won’t make _that_ mistake again.” Besides, physical attractiveness was not everything. Narishma seemed a bit...prudish. Natael had yet to see the Arafellin smile. Borderlanders were a rather humourless folk, he had noticed.

Taim’s perpetual sarcasm didn’t count as humour. “So you agree that bedding Mishraile was a mistake,” he said with a crooked half-smile.

_Two can play that game_ , Natael thought. “Can we focus on the list? Or will you insist on talking about Atal till dawn? I’m beginning to think that his supposedly unwanted flirting has more effect on you than you care to admit.”

He was rewarded by Taim’s grimace of irritation. “Should we leave Narishma out of our list for the time being, then? Wait another week or two, knowing that any of the Forsaken might use that time to recruit him?”

Natael made a dismissive gesture. “He’s already a Dreadlord, for all we know. A week won’t change anything. Let’s eliminate those who are obviously incompatible with our project, then let’s meet again next week to discuss the ones we intend to elevate to the highest rank.”

“Do you realise how many new recruits we get every day, Natael? I brought in eleven men yesterday. If we let a week go by, we’ll need another full week to decide what to do with them.”

He had a point, but Natael wasn’t about to concede it aloud. “Fine. Let’s do most of the eliminations tonight and deal with the promotions tomorrow, then. That’ll give me some time to study Master Narishma and other potential candidates, as well.”

“Such as?”

“Well, I’m more tempted to trust our first recruits, since we’ve known them a bit longer than the rest. Grady, Hopwil, Adley, Nalaam... They’ve had more training, too, so promoting them makes more sense.”

Taim considered it for a moment. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. And I think we can discard Coteren and Torval right away. They’re both bullies, and not too bright besides.”

Natael nodded. “Dashiva, too. The man gives me the creeps. Always muttering to himself and glowering at everyone... He’s probably half-mad already.”

Taim made some notes on the parchment. “Good. We’re finally making some progress. What about Canler? He seems innocuous enough.”

“But are the innocuous ones truly the ones we want?” Natael mused. “Even if they’re not Friends of the Dark, that doesn't mean that they’d be worthy Asha’man. Canler is a good man, but he was a simple farmer before he joined the…well, former farm.” Another reason why “Black Tower” sounded a lot better than “the farm”. The latter was misleading. “Flinn has been a soldier most of his life. The others are still young enough to receive proper discipline and training. Canler is quite old, though, and he doesn’t respect the hierarchy as he should.” He’d been one of those who’d made fun of Natael – the newly appointed Ghraem – the previous day. “And he cannot wield a sword.”

“Neither can I,” Taim noted. “And I’ve never seen you even holding one.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t _use_ one, when the need arises,” Natael retorted. That was a lie, but Taim didn’t need to know that.

Taim eyed him suspiciously. “I still don’t approve of al’Thor’s compulsory sword lessons, let alone the hand fighting ones, but perhaps you could benefit from both, given your…condition.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Natael snapped. “We both know that these fighting methods are useless to us. When could we possibly need them? If we’re facing foes, channelers or not, we use the Power. If we’re shielded, we’re most likely bound as well, for good measure, so any other weapon is worthless. Carrying a sword merely serves a decorative purpose, if that." Swords were great for accessorising, he had to give them that. Well, ornamental sheaths were, in any case. "I can’t think of a scenario where we would have to actually wield it.”

“I couldn’t, either, before I found out about your shield,” Taim said. “I suspect al’Thor enforces these lessons because they teach the men discipline more than anything else. But in your case, any means of defence could prove useful.”

“Even weak as I am, I know tricks that require very little of the Power. I don’t need a flaming sword,” Natael insisted.

“So I was right.” A smug smile surfaced on Taim’s face. “You don’t know one end of a sword from the other.”

“Shouldn’t we focus on the bloody list?” he muttered.

“I know what we should do,” Taim said, his dark eyes glinting as though he’d had an epiphany. Natael let out an noncommittal grunt. “Flinn. We raise him, then _he_ takes care of recruiting the other Asha’man. He knows them better than we ever could and they trust him. They look up to him.”

“Yes, because he’s old,” Natael said.

Taim stared at him. “You’re over three thousand years old.”

“But I don’t look a day over thirty,” he said testily.

“You’re impossible,” Taim complained, pinching his nose. “Regardless of _why_ they respect Flinn, what do you think?”

It was actually not a terrible idea, Natael had to admit. “We could give it a try, I suppose. But can we really trust him?”

“We both agreed that he was our best option. _You_ were the one who suggested him.”

“Well, it _seems_ like a good idea, but how will he react to everything we tell him? What if he decides to snitch on us to the farm boy? Or to conspire behind our backs?”

“That will be a risk with everyone. I still think that Flinn is our best option. If he seems reluctant, we’ll bait him with promises of better Healing techniques.”

“Techniques that neither of us know,” Natael pointed out.

“Oh, for the love of-” Taim let out a harsh breath. “Can we just agree on this one thing and get some rest? You are absolutely exhausting.”

Natael shrugged. “Fine. But let it be on record that you made the final call. If Flinn betrays us…”

“If Flinn betrays us, it will likely be because you’ve annoyed him to death.” He rolled up the parchment and stood smoothly. “I’m leaving. I’ll summon Flinn in the morning to let him know _our_ decision.” With that, he left Natael to finish both cups of wine, which he certainly needed.

He dared call Natael _impossible_? He was the impossible one! Natael ought to kill him in his sleep and make Flinn his second-in-command.

However, for some unfathomable reason, he trusted Taim more than he trusted anyone else.

That was a troubling realisation.


	11. Men don't cry

_No more wine for you_

_No more poisoning, either_

_I shall handle both_

Raising Flinn had been a grand idea. Natael had never doubted it for one second.

The Asha’man showed initiative, he unburdened Natael of many bothersome tasks, and he hadn’t betrayed them (yet). He’d even seemed…understanding of their plight. Said he didn’t like to go behind al’Thor’s back, but agreed that the boy’s mental state left a lot to be desired. He was obviously – and adequately – afraid of the (other) Chosen, but he’d sworn to do his best to defeat them. He hadn’t laughed at Natael’s awkward situation – though he’d been surprised to learn that he was Asmodean, despite Natael’s immense musical talent and infinite wisdom.

They often met to discuss other potential candidates to be raised to the rank of Asha’man and Flinn had already cleared half a dozen of them, all early recruits. They’d all been awarded that ridiculous dragon pin.

Of course, this had caused many of the other students to complain. As expected, Rochaid and Gedwyn had been among the first to barge into Taim’s study to demand a promotion. The M’Hael had handled it well enough, but Natael had noticed the glares and hushed conversations. If they didn’t watch it, the discarded men – though they didn’t know they’d been discarded altogether, of course; they merely assumed that it would take more time for them to ascend to the highest rank – would form a faction and may become troublesome at some point. Being Dedicated wouldn’t satisfy them for long.

This evening, Taim, Flinn and Natael were supposed to take a break from their endless argument on the trustworthiness of the men. In consequence, Natael was reclining in a warm bath, sipping wine and idly composing a new ballad.

He should have known better than to expect a pleasant, undisturbed moment to himself.

Taim walked into the bathroom without bothering to knock, causing Natael to startle and spill some of his wine in the water. He hadn’t even heard the man come up the stairs. Sneaky bastard. “We need to talk,” the M’Hael announced without preamble. At least he had the decency to keep his eyes away from the tub. He started pacing, hands behind his back.

“I’m in my bath!” Natael sputtered, as though it weren’t glaringly obvious.

Taim didn’t even bother to smirk at the remarkably stupid comment. It had to be important business, then. “We have our first one.”

Natael frowned in confusion. “Our first what?”

“Madman,” Taim said softly. “Damer just warned me. One of the younger Soldiers has been behaving erratically, muttering to himself, laughing and crying for no reason. He punched another Soldier without being provoked and didn't remember doing it when questioned afterwards. Moodiness, memory loss, belligerence - those are the most common symptoms. We must act immediately, before he really hurts someone. We can’t allow him to-”

“Why are you telling me this?” Natael demanded. “More importantly, why are you telling me this _now_? Couldn't it wait until morning?” Or at least until he'd dried himself and put on some clothes?

Taim stopped pacing to stare at Natael as though _he_ were mad. “Don’t you understand? He’s dangerous. Others could be hurt, or he could do severe damage to the wall, or-”

“I understand perfectly well. I just don’t see why I should be involved in this matter.”

“What are you talking about?” He looked genuinely puzzled.

“When you first arrived, you decided to be in charge of the students, without asking for my opinion. I told you that, in that case, you could also deal with them should trouble arise. This is _your_ problem, Taim, not mine. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a very important bath to return to.” He pointedly turned to look at the wall, expecting Taim to leave him alone.

“You selfish twit,” Taim growled. “We are both in charge. We are in this mess together. We made a pact!”

“We never said anything about me poisoning the recruits. I’ll happily leave that to you, o Supreme Leader.”

“You bloody coward.”

Natael turned sharply at that. Not the C word again. Taim stood with his back straight, hands balled into fists. He radiated anger, his dark eyes glittering. He seemed even larger than usual. It could have been a trick of the Power, but Natael would have sensed it, it that were the case. Natael did his best to ignore Taim’s baleful glare as he spoke. He wouldn’t allow himself to be frightened by a mere mortal of this Age. “Leave me. Now.”

Taim seized _saidin_.

_No. He wouldn’t dare!_

Natael did likewise, though the trickle of Power that coursed through him was insignificant beside Taim’s impressive display. The temperature in the room dropped by several degrees and the candles were snuffed out. The world went utterly still. Natael’s hold on _saidin_ faltered.

The M’Hael suddenly released the Source. Without another word, he stormed out, leaving Natael alone in the dark. Moonlight reflected on his bath water.

Natael exhaled slowly. To his embarrassment, he was shaking like a leaf. His grip on _saidin_ wavered, then he lost it entirely.

Blood and flaming ashes! The man was even more intense than Demandred, when he was angry. What had gotten into him? It wasn’t like he _needed_ Natael to take care of this little problem, was it? It was just a matter of slipping a vial of poison into a cup of wine. How hard could it be?

* * *

Natael was enjoying his breakfast the next morning when someone knocked insistently on his door. He groaned in irritation. He couldn’t take a bath in peace, couldn’t even finish buttering his toast-

Flinn stepped inside without waiting for permission. He was obviously in a foul mood, which was unusual, to say the least. “Did you know about this?” he demanded. “Did you _agree_ to this?”

Natael eyed him cautiously. “Know about what?”

“The boy!” Flinn thundered. “Eben found him dead on his cot when he woke up to take a piss in the middle of the night. Scared him so much that he waited until now to tell me. Yesterday the boy was alive, then I told the M’Hael that I had suspicions…” He paused, panting slightly. “And now he’s flaming _dead._ What did you do to him? What happened? And where’s the body? I trust Eben. If he says he saw a dead body, I believe him, but now it’s nowhere to be found.”

Natael waited a few seconds to ascertain that he was done rambling. “I…um, why are you asking me? Where’s Taim?”

“He left early in the morning, supposedly to go on a recruiting trip, but he went alone, according to the Dedicated who were on guard duty. If he’d been here, I would have gone to him, of course.”

_Of course_ , Natael thought bitterly. Taim had left him to handle the consequences of _his_ actions. “Well, my dear man. What exactly did you expect Taim to do about your…suspicions?”

That brought Flinn up short. He struggled to come up with an answer, then looked down in defeat. “I don’t know, Ghraem.” He sighed heavily. “But he was just a boy. Same age as my nephew.”

“Most of them are quite young. The taint doesn’t differentiate, Flinn. It will kill us all indiscriminately, eventually. You must know that. You have to accept that. Otherwise I fear that you chose the wrong place to enjoy your retirement...”

Flinn shook his head sadly. “I suppose you’re right, m’lord. I…apologise for the disturbance.” He left silently, closing the door behind him.

Burn Taim! It wasn’t bad enough that he’d nearly murdered Natael the night before, now he left him to deal with the aftermath of his very first mercy-kill? Ugh. Then again, you’d think that the men would understand, Flinn especially. It _was_ a mercy. Better to die relatively sane than to go out in a fiery explosion, taking innocent victims in the process. What had they expected? To be expelled from the Black Tower, so that they could go and explode somewhere else?

Natael stared at the remnants of his breakfast, which had grown cold. With a huff of annoyance, he threw it in the garbage and walked over to Taim’s palace to await his return. They needed to talk.

* * *

Taim didn’t return that day. Natael had wasted three hours of his precious time waiting for him, in vain, then had eventually given up to make sure that the recruits were behaving.

They weren’t. Rumours of what had happened that night had been spreading all morning and the men were distracted, which was dangerous when one was manipulating _saidin_. Natael had no choice but to make an announcement to clear the air. He would murder Taim for forcing this upon him. If the bloody man ever returned.

Had the M’Hael abandoned them? Had Taim abandoned _him_? What would Natael do if he didn’t return? Come clean to al’Thor, blame everything on the Saldaean? Natael supposed that Flinn could be put in charge of the students, if it came to that.

That night, however, as Natael got up to fetch some wine to quench his thirst, he noticed that a light was on in Taim’s study. He hesitated for a moment, then put on some clothes – nothing fancy: a plain midnight blue silk shirt with lace at the cuffs, black trousers and his second-best pair of boots. He drained a glass of wine before marching over to Taim’s.

He didn’t bother to knock. After all, Taim had never shown him that simple courtesy. He entered through the back door, which opened in the kitchen, and escalated the three flights of stairs that led to Taim’s study. He pushed the door open. “Where in the Pit of Doom have you-”

Natael came to an abrupt halt when he took in the scene inside the room, the rest of his sentence dying in his throat. Taim, who had been slumped in a chair by the empty fireplace, jumped to his feet when Natael barged in, wiping hurriedly at his face. There was a jug of wine beside the chair and, judging by Taim’s unsteadiness, it was more empty than full.

Taim, drunk? Taim, _crying_?

“Don’t you know how to knock, burn you?!” Taim slurred.

“I…” Natael didn’t know what to do or say. He felt…embarrassed. Though the Great Lord knew, Taim had caught him in awkward situations because of his own lack of knocking before. It had seemed like a good idea to give him a taste of his own medicine, for once, but… Ugh. Grown men were not supposed to cry. Not even in the privacy of their own home. It was…unseemly. “I…” he tried again, but he could form no proper sentence. “Taim, um… Where… I mean, what happened?” The wording wasn’t perfect, but Taim should be able to make sense of the question.

“Go away,” Taim muttered indistinctly, waving in Natael’s general direction. Sort of. “Leave me alone. You wanted me to do this alone, so leave me alone.”

He wasn’t making any sense. “I never said that you should go recruiting on your own. That was quite foolish of you, actually. What if you’d run into Aes Sedai? What if-”

Taim snorted in a very inelegant manner. “Aes Sedai? I’m not afraid of bloody Aes Sedai! I’ve killed more witches than any other man alive. _They_ should be afraid of _me_.”

“Yes, well, yay for you, Witch-Killer. Maybe you should lie down and get some-”

“Why are you even here, Nate?” Taim demanded abruptly.

_Nate?_ Nate! As if it weren’t bad enough that he had only two names now, Taim was shortening it even further. “I’m here because you weren’t around earlier to deal with the consequences of the mess _you_ initiated! I was left to-”

“Blah-di-blah,” Taim said mockingly. “You poor thing, you actually had to work today.” His smirk was cruel, if a bit lopsided. “What I meant, is why are you _here_ , at the Black Tower? You don’t belong. Al’Thor would never bother to track you down if you fled, you know. He doesn’t care. You’re no threat to him. You’re just here because he didn’t know what else to do with you, and you were too much of a pain in his arse to keep around.”

Well, ouch. Also, none of that was true. Natael was just as threatening as any of the other Chosen. And of course the farm boy would hunt him down if he ran away. Al’Thor couldn’t allow anyone to know that he’d received lessons from the enemy. “You’re not yourself, Taim,” he said testily. “You’re spewing nonsense and it is very unbecoming.”

“You’re unbecoming.”

What a comeback. Natael sighed, feeling somewhat disappointed. Drunk Taim wasn’t as entertaining as sarcastic, witty, irksome Taim. “Alright, do as you wish. Just make sure that the men don’t see you like this. You’re supposed to be their role model, not me.”

“You’re no one’s role model. You’re a shit.”

Despite Taim’s inebriated state, which may constitute an excuse for such rude, petty, unnecessary words, anger flared within Natael. “I swear, I will knock you out cold if you keep mouthing off, young man.”

Taim giggled. He actually _giggled_. “I’d like to see you try, weakling.” The words were barely slurred out of his mouth that he seized _saidin_. “Do you even remember what it was like to be all-powerful, Ghraem?” he sneered. “You’re pathetic. The Dark One must have been drunk the day he raised you.”

Natael gritted his teeth, then realised they were chattering. Taim was holding the Power and he was anything but lucid. This grating situation had just become a potentially dangerous one. “I can’t speak for the Great Lord, but _you_ are certainly drunk.”

“How perceptive of you,” Taim said with a wide, silly grin. Natael was beginning to miss that ghostly smirk of his.

“Go to sleep, Taim. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

“I’m feeling fine right now. Much better than _this_ morning,” he said with a grimace.

“Why? What happened this morning?” If Natael could at least get to the bottom of what was bothering him, perhaps he could defuse the situation.

Taim shot him a glacial glare. He seemed almost like himself. “You made _me_ do it. _You’re_ supposed to be the cold-blooded murderer, not me. Why did you make me do it, Nate? Why did _I_ have to kill an innocent lad, when you’re the evil Forsaken who usually kills innocent lads? It’s not bloody fair! Peace, you should have seen the look on his mother’s face when I brought the body home…” He took a long, shuddering breath. “She actually _thanked_ me, you know. She thanked me for killing her only son. Said she should have done it herself weeks ago, when she realised what was happening, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it, so she sent him to the Tower, knowing that we’d do what was necessary, when the time came.”

_Oh, so that’s where he’s been all day._

Natael stared at him, momentarily struck speechless. He hadn’t realised just how much it would affect Taim to have to dispose of the madman. It was just poison, for the Shadow’s sake! It wasn’t like he’d actually had to use a blade, or even _saidin_ … He’d barely done the killing himself; the poison had done all the work for him! And why in the Great Lord’s name had he returned the body to the next of kin himself? Any of the Dedicated could have seen to it.

“Taim…” Natael was slowly recovering his voice. “How many Aes Sedai did you kill, during that little rebellion of yours? How many soldiers? How many civilians?” Thousands of people had perished in Saldaea after Taim had declared himself the Dragon Reborn, Natael knew. And Taim had literally just bragged about killing a large number of Aes Sedai all by himself. "What's one more-"

“It’s not the same,” Taim grumbled. “I had a purpose, then. And it was my life or theirs. They would have done worse to me, if they could.” He sniffled loudly.

_Great Lord, please, don’t let him cry again_ , Natael prayed. “Haven’t you done it before? Your first day here, you claimed that you’d witnessed a…friend of yours going mad.”

“And you think I enjoyed doing it?” Taim snarled. Natael had almost forgotten that he was holding the Power; a dangerous oversight. A small fireball crashed a foot to his left, destroying part of a bookshelf. Poor aim due to the excess of wine, or calculated warning shot? There was no way of knowing. Natael hastily snuffed out the fire before it could spread.

“I know it’s a mercy but, Light have mercy on _me_ , it’s ripping my soul apart,” Taim whispered. That said, he half-sat, half-fell in his chair, and Natael noted with relief that he’d released _saidin_.

Or, more accurately, the Power had slipped away from him when he’d fallen into a wine-induced sleep, given the fact that he was now snoring noisily.

Careful not to wake him, though he doubted it was possible, Natael exited the study.

Halfway down the stairs, he stopped abruptly, then retraced his steps. He extinguished all the candles in the study and gingerly threw a blanket over Taim. He filled the empty wine jug with water and deposited it on Taim’s desk, where the man would be sure to find it in the morning. He also placed a garbage bin near the chair, in case Taim got sick. Which, given his condition, was more than likely.

Then he stepped out again and returned to his bed, feeling confused and melancholy.


	12. The time has come to destroy your supremacy

_How is he alive?_

_Hangovers are for the weak_

_Flinn, you backstabber_

Natael hadn’t expected to see Taim the next morning but, surprisingly, the M’Hael was already up and about when Natael finally emerged from his cottage. To be fair, because of Taim, he’d had a dreadful night. He’d had nonsensical nightmares involving the Great Lord, several Chosen, a particularly disrespectful al’Thor and, of course, Taim himself. All of them had been mocking Natael and shouting that he didn’t belong, that he was a pathetic failure, a weakling and a coward.

So much for taking care of Taim the previous night. Good deeds were never rewarded – that was what had led Natael to join the Shadow in the first place. Evil deeds _did_ bring forth bountiful rewards. Fame, glory, immortality… That was all Natael lived for. Or used to live for, anyway. Now he was just trying to survive.

Taim was talking to Flinn. Both men wore solemn expressions and the Asha’man was nodding gravely. As Natael approached them, Flinn saluted Taim and joined the assembled group of channelers who awaited nearby. Flinn seized _saidin_ and a gateway appeared; the Asha’man stepped through it, followed by two Dedicated and three Soldiers. The gateway winked out as Natael reached Taim.

His clothes were in pristine condition, as usual. Taim himself looked his normal self: confident, commanding, not a hair out of place. It was like nothing had happened. He welcomed Natael with a half-sneer. “So good of you to join us for the lunch break.”

The nerve of the man! Natael had a vicious comeback in mind – several, in fact; most of them involving Taim crying like a little girl – but he decided to be the bigger man. Besides, he could always play this card in the future, if he ever needed to blackmail Taim. Or seriously annoy him. He composed himself before speaking calmly. “Where are they going?”

“Scouting and recruiting. It’s about time I left that sort of things to lesser channelers.” He smiled wryly. “I considered putting _you_ in charge of the recruiting team, but we need this channeler army now, not in the next century.” Natael’s jaw clenched, but he successfully kept his cool. Was the man being provocative on purpose? Indeed, Taim seemed weirdly disappointed by the lack of retort. His expression grew darker. “I’m reorganising everything. The Asha’man will receive private lessons from both you and me, in the evenings. During the day, half of them will be recruiting, and the rest will be testing the newer recruits. You will supervise the Soldiers and I will take care of the Dedicated. Once a week, I’ll put forth a few handpicked names among the Dedicated to be raised Asha’man, and Flinn will either approve or reject them. You will decide which Soldiers are ready to become Dedicated. I think all recruits should become Soldiers as soon as they can seize _saidin_ and have mastered the most elementary weaves.”

He’d really thought this through. But when? During his drunken slumber? “When you say that I should ‘supervise’ the Soldiers…”

“You make sure that they train and behave and discipline them at need. You don’t have to actually give them lessons. Real lessons are for Dedicated and Asha’man only. The Soldiers need to know basic offensive weaves and nothing more. Just try to keep them alive until they’re either raised or needed in battle.”

Well. It seemed simple enough. Besides, most Soldiers wouldn’t be able to tell just how weak Natael was. He’d still have time to drink wine and play the harp at leisure; that was all that mattered.

“Also, don’t sleep with any of them, if you can resist the temptation,” Taim added dryly.

That was the last drop. “What is _wrong_ with you?” Natael hissed, though he tried to keep his voice low. “Yesterday you were blabbering nonsense and now you’re deliberately trying to… I don’t even know what you’re trying to do!” He huffed sharply. “I have been very patient with you, Taim, but what you said to me last night… Is that really how you feel? Because I will not be mocked by the likes of you. Look, if it bothers you so much, I can take care of the poisonings, but-”

Taim blinked in confusion. “What are you going on about? Last night? I didn’t see you yesterday, Natael. I was dealing with a personal matter, which took me all day, and you were already in bed when I returned.”

Natael stared at him. He couldn’t be serious. Was he pretending to have suffered a drunken black-out because he was embarrassed by what Natael had witnessed? Or had he truly forgotten everything? He did look perplexed; if he was playacting, he was bloody good at it.

Taim snorted softly when Natael remained silent. “Seems to me like someone had too much to drink last night. You really should lay off the wine, Nate.”

There it was again. Was it a sign that he did remember, or had he secretly been calling him “Nate” in his mind all along?

But that was beside the point. Had he seriously just accused Natael of doing what _he_ had been doing? “I… How _dare_ you… You…” Natael sputtered. “You are impossible!” he shouted. Taim seemed slightly taken aback by this, but it at least wiped the smirk off his face. Realising that he was losing his battle with his own self-control, Natael retreated to his small house.

* * *

“Ah, Flinn,” Natael called as the Asha’man peeked inside the kitchen later that afternoon. “Do come in.” Flinn complied, then stood awaiting Natael’s orders. “Take a seat. Help yourself to some wine.”

Flinn frowned slightly, as though Natael had never demonstrated any hospitability before, then sat on a chair opposite Natael and poured himself half a cup of wine. “Thank you, Ghraem,” he said politely. Now, there was a man who had proper manners. He took the tiniest sip. “You, um, wanted to see me, m’lord?”

Natael leaned forward in his chair. “I did. I hear that Taim has decided to lodge all of the Asha’man in his…mansion.” Palace. Small fortress. It could be called many things. Flinn nodded slowly. “Do you know how many men can be housed there, exactly?”

Flinn thought it over for a minute. “There are twelve bedrooms, m’lord, besides that of the M’Hael. So I’d say up to forty-eight, if we squeeze up a wee bit.”

“Mm, yes, but we don’t want to have to do that, do we? You’re Asha’man. You deserve your own room, each of you.” He drank from his own cup, taking his time to savour the wine. He was getting used to the mediocre vintages of this Age, was coming to appreciate their unique flavours. This particular one might have been served in a lowly tavern, back in the so-called Age of Legends.

“I’m sure we can make do, Ghraem. I’ve slept in worse conditions,” Flinn said matter-of-factly. “Besides, there are only six of us.”

Natael shook his head. “But there’ll be more soon, hopefully. No, no, this won’t do at all. Do you think that full Aes Sedai share a room with their sisters?” He chuckled softly. “Well, I suppose they do, on occasion, but that’s another matter entirely.” Flinn’s face reddened alarmingly. It was amusing, how the subtlest sex-related comment could trigger that sort of reaction in anyone of this Age, but Natael was trying to manipulate the man to do him a favour. Embarrassing him would certainly not help Natael get his way. “Flinn, our official objective, as you know, is to gather an army for the Lord Dragon, because his chances of subjecting the Aes Sedai to his will are, let’s be honest, infinitesimally small, especially on short notice, but he does need channeling warriors at his side before the Last Battle begins. But did we choose the name ‘Black Tower’ by accident? Of course not! We are meant to rival the White Tower, to show them, and the world, the might of the Dragon Reborn. Eventually, I assume that young al’Thor’s plan will include us intimidating the witches into submission.” He was making everything up as he went. He had no inkling what the farm boy was planning. The idea was merely to convince Flinn that he had bigger concerns than his own comfort. “My point is, the M’Hael and I are expecting many more channelers in the weeks and months to come, and we’ll raise as many as we reasonably can to the highest rank.” He could tell that Flinn was listening attentively, but the old man didn’t seem to see where Natael was going with this. He was scowling, his bushy eyebrows knit over his grey eyes. Well, perhaps Natael had come on a bit too strongly. “We need more rooms for our future Asha’man.” He paused, gauging Flinn’s reaction, but the man remained silent, obviously expecting Natael to spell it out for him. Natael rolled his eyes internally. “We need a second mansion, Flinn.”

His eyes lit up in sudden understanding. “Oh. I see.” His gaze shifted toward the window, where Taim’s palace could be seen looming over the entire compound. “Well, Ghraem, I can arrange that. I’ll need Hardlin to oversee the construction and a team of a dozen or so channelers, preferably Dedicated with an affinity for Earth weaving. We built that wall in no time, so I expect this can be done by next week.”

A _week_? Ugh. Natael had to admit that he’d hoped for the building to sort of…sprout out of the ground overnight. Mainly so that Taim couldn’t complain about it, or even realise what was happening before it was done. But next week would have to do, he supposed. He’d have to confront the M’Hael at some point, anyway.

“Where would you like that mansion, Ghraem?”

Ah, dear Flinn. Courteous to a fault. The handful of Asha’man they’d promoted thus far still had trouble not running away in terror at the sight of Natael, now that they were aware of his true identity, but not Flinn. Though a vague display of fear and awe now and then wouldn’t go amiss, admittedly. But respect and civility would have to do.

He’d thought about the location of his new quarters. His initial idea – as far away from Taim’s monstrosity as possible – was unpractical. The other end of the compound was mainly occupied by the latrines and animal pens, so that was out of the question. With the newly-constructed wall, building anything outside of the perimeter seemed a bit silly. The only space left that could accommodate such a large construction was, in fact, right next to Taim’s own mansion.

Natael was loath to move in so close to Taim, but at least it would justify building a new mansion: more room for the Asha’man, who would all be situated in the same section of the Black Tower, whichever mansion they dwelled in. Ideally, they would all live with Taim. After all, housing the Asha’man in the building had been his idea. Natael just wanted a bloody mansion for himself, so he didn’t have to sleep in that dingy cottage while Taim lived a luxurious life in his grand palace. It was only fair. They were supposed to be equals.

Though Natael intended to make his own mansion a tad bigger than Taim’s. “Right here,” he replied. “Next to the other one.”

Flinn scratched his beard. “We will need to demolish the cottage, m’lord.”

Natael waved dismissively. “I have no problem with that.” They’d done a lot of repair on it, but it was _old_. Old, inelegant, and unfit for a leader, especially one of Natael’s importance. He deserved a three-stories mansion with rooms to lodge his many servants, its own kitchen, a large bathtub, a grand bedroom with a balcony, a proper wine cellar… Oh, and they could begin working on a sewer system and plumbing, as well.

“You should probably stay with the M’Hael while we build your new lodgings, then,” Flinn went on, effectively shattering Natael’s reverie.

He gaped at Flinn in shock. “What?” he said stupidly. Saying ‘what’ when one had perfectly understood the other person, just to give oneself time to process the information and think of an intelligent reply, was one of the bad habits Natael had picked up in this Age. He regained his composure quickly. “I mean, I doubt that will be necessary.”

“Well, we’ll need to take down the cottage before we lay out the foundations for the new mansion, Ghraem. The sooner you’re out of here, the faster we can get to work.”

“That’s…” Preposterous. The whole point of manoeuvring Flinn was to avoid Taim knowing about the new building until _after_ it was too late to stop its construction. If Natael had to go begging for a place to sleep, he’d need a _very_ good reason…

“Though I ‘spose you could stay in one of the barracks in the meantime, if you prefer. They’re sparsely occupied at the moment.” Was it just Natael’s mind playing tricks on him, or was Flinn holding back a smile? Taim had a terrible influence on their pupils.

“I will consider my options and get back to you in the morning,” Natael declared eventually. “You should leave now. Your lesson is about to begin, I believe.” He gulped down the remainder of his wine cup, Flinn already dismissed from his thoughts.

The Asha’man hadn’t moved, however. He eyed Natael uncomfortably. “When he heard that you’d summoned me, the M’Hael asked me to remind you that you were supposed to participate in these lessons, m’lord.”

Oh, blood and ashes. He’d forgotten about that. As if supervising the Soldiers wasn’t enough work, now he had to teach the Asha’man in the evening as well. What a waste of his precious time, which Natael could have used to design his future place of residence. He sighed heavily. “Go on ahead. I’ll be there in a minute.” Flinn stood and bowed before leaving.

Natael glanced at his empty wine cup, then eyed Flinn’s. The Asha’man had barely touched it. Natael downed it. He would certainly need it.

* * *

Teaching the full Asha’man was not as bad as Natael had feared.

For one thing, they were already familiar with all the basics, and they had attained a proper level of discipline.

For another, they knew exactly who Natael was, and none dared so much as whisper while he was instructing them. It was actually quite pleasant. He could be a competent teacher, when given the opportunity to prove his talents in an adequate setting, with diligent students.

It probably helped that Taim and he taught in separate rooms.

Adley was struggling with his assignment, Natael noticed. He had just demonstrated how to weave a shield of Water to ward off Fire attacks, but the lad was having trouble with it. Water was not the young Asha’man’s strongest element, but that was hardly surprising. Women were notoriously stronger with Air and Water, while men usually favoured Fire and Earth. But they had to be polyvalent. The Chosen and their Dreadlords wouldn’t be considerate enough to use convenient weaves when they attacked. “You can try adding a bit of Earth to it,” Natael advised, demonstrating as he spoke. Maintaining a shield combining two elements was difficult for him, but it didn’t need to be large or powerful for the students to get the trick. As it was, Natael’s shield was roughly the size of a plate, and wouldn’t be much help in a fight. Nobody sniggered at the size of it, though.

Adley was sweating in concentration. Taim and he had decided to teach the Asha’man the famous “secret” to ignoring cold and heat alike, but some of them were quicker to master it than others. Given the unnaturally warm weather, Natael sometimes wondered if they ought to inform the rest of the men, but Taim had deemed it unnecessary. It was best if only the Asha’man displayed the ability, he claimed. It would separate them from the lesser channelers. Natael supposed that the issue wasn’t worth arguing over.

Adley’s shield finally took form, the added thread of Earth obviously helping. It kept growing until it completely enclosed the youth. “Good initiative, surrounding yourself with it.” Natael commented. His two other pupils realised that they were only protected up front and followed Adley’s example. Natael nodded approvingly. “Now, Narishma, use a minor offensive Fire weave on them, to see if they can resist it.” Adley paled. Narishma had only been here a few weeks, but he was already one of their most powerful recruits and he had been raised to the highest rank after mere days. “Keep it up, Adley. Concentrate.”

Narishma, who was prettier than a man had any right to be, complied without a word. His “minor offensive Fire weave” nearly set the curtains, then the entire room, aflame. The problem with the lad was that he was so strong, he sometimes had trouble gauging the force of his attacks, especially indoors.

Natael quickly smothered the curtains with Air mixed with Water and Narishma lost his grip on _saidin_ as soon as he realised what he’d done. His cheeks reddened in embarrassment, which somehow enhanced his distracting beauty. “Sorry, Ghraem,” he muttered, eyes downcast.

Perhaps they’d raised him a bit too soon. He was trustworthy enough, but he could have benefited from another week or two of the more basic lessons. On the bright side, the shields had held against the sudden inferno. Adley seemed a bit stunned, understandably so, since he’d just been engulfed in flames, while his companion, Vinchova, the youngest Asha’man, had gone white as a sheet. He looked about ready to faint.

Natael smiled slightly. “I think that’ll be enough for today, class. You did well.” They saluted him and departed with murmured thanks. They’d been practising for over two hours; they must be exhausted.

Natael sighed contentedly, stretching his back. He had done well, too, if he did say so himself. He didn’t expect a pat on the back from anyone, so he might as well congratulate himself. He glanced out the window at his cottage and was reminded of the chore that awaited him: explaining to Taim that he needed to briefly sojourn in the mansion, because he was having his own built nearby.

As he opened the door to go find the M’Hael, he found the Saldaean waiting for him in the corridor. Taim was leaning against a wall and wearing his usual half-smirk. That was not a good sign. “How did your first real lesson go?” he enquired with faked casualness, examining his nails.

“It went well,” Natael replied a bit too curtly, feeling defensive. It was hardly his first lesson. “Nobody died,” he added dryly.

“Good, good.” His smile widened a bit, which sent a cold shiver down Natael’s spine. “Which room would you like?” he went on conversationally.

Natael stared at him, though Taim seemed entirely absorbed by the state of his nails, which were perfectly manicured. The man was incredibly vain.

He couldn’t believe that Flinn had betrayed him. That back-stabbing codger! Natael would make certain that he paid for this treachery. He would have him test all of the new recruits by himself for a month and clean the latrines when he was done.

Taim chuckled quietly. “I was wondering how long it would be before you finally decided to get your own mansion. Flinn and I had an on-going bet about it, in fact. I assured him that it would be done by the end of the year, but he insisted that you were too proud to give in.”

They had _bet_ on the matter? Natael held back several curses and made an attempt at keeping his cool. He took a deep breath and released it slowly. He raised his chin up as he spoke. “In truth, I told Asha’man Flinn that I was _considering_ it. Nothing’s decided yet. I was merely enquiring about the practicalities. I was obviously going to discuss it with you before-”

Taim shook his head and his smile faded. He looked…disappointed. “Why do you always feel the need to lie to me, even when the facts speak for themselves? Flinn recounted the entire conversation for me, Nate. Natael,” he amended, frowning slightly. “I don’t have a problem with you having your own place, although it seems a waste of space, considering the size of this building. If you wanted your own bedroom, there are several to choose from. There is also room for another study-”

Natael scoffed. “You want me to live with you?”

Taim’s expression darkened. “All of the Asha’man already live here. It’s not like we’re…moving in together,” he mumbled. “Anyway. What I meant is that, while I have no issue with you building another mansion right beside mine, I wish you wouldn’t do it behind my back. It’s a pretty important decision and I wish you had at least consulted me. This is bad for our image as equal, united leaders, and it undermines our authority.”

“ _Your_ image. _Your_ authority,” Natael corrected him.

Taim shook his head insistently. “You refuse to understand, don’t you? When you do things like that, of your own initiative, be they right or wrong, all that the men see is that you consider yourself above me. Above the rules we’ve worked so hard to enforce.” He paused, seemingly to give Natael a chance to defend himself, but Natael would not give him the satisfaction. He would not be goaded into yet another pointless argument about leadership. “You’re a selfish prick, you know that?” Taim said softly. He didn’t sound angry or bitter, but rather…upset. As though it genuinely troubled him, instead of merely annoy him. As though he expected better of Natael.

Taim was being understanding, was trying to give him a chance to do better. To _be_ better. Natael should have apologised, perhaps, but that was simply not in his nature. So instead of defusing the situation, Natael made it worse. So much worse. He simply couldn’t help himself. “I have been alive for three thousand years, Taim, three hundred of which I actually spent living. Do you honestly think I’ve ever asked _anyone_ permission to do _anything_?” Taim’s eyes flashed; now he was angry. Had he seriously expected a meek, subdued reaction? “The Great Lord gives us assignments, but even He understands that we, the Chosen, must be free to do as we wish. As long as the job is done, He doesn’t care. I have never answered to anyone but Him, and now you expect me to ask _you_ for permission? Who do you think you are? I behave as though I am above you because I _am_. I have no reason to listen to you, to obey you. Al’Thor is not the boss of me, either. I don’t care what he decreed, I am and will always be my own man. Neither he nor the Great Lord nor bloody Demandred can take that away from me.” He was panting slightly by the time he finished his rant. His totally justified rant.

Taim had gone from angry to seemingly worried. Odd. Natael had assumed that he would have seized _saidin_ by now, and possibly thrown Natael out of a window, or set him afire. In fact, he almost wished he would. The silence was growing awkward. “I used to think it was your inflated ego that made you talk like this,” Taim said eventually. He was eyeing Natael cautiously and keeping his distance. “But Nate…how long exactly have you been under the influence of the taint?” he asked in a low voice.

Natael snorted in disbelief. “You fool, it’s merely been months. You, on the other hand, have been subjected to it for _years_. If anyone here is mad, it is not I, Taim. It’s you.” He’d had enough of this. Enough of Taim’s unpleasant innuendos. He wasn’t mad. He was deeply frustrated by Taim and it made him _sound_ mad. That was all.

He had to leave. At that moment, he wasn’t sure if he meant leave the mansion or the Black Tower altogether, but he couldn’t be in Taim’s presence for a second longer. He turned on his heels and stomped away, but Taim wouldn’t allow it. He caught Natael’s sleeve and opened his mouth, but Natael spoke right over him. “You really don’t remember what happened last night?” he demanded. Burn him. He had brought this upon himself.

Taim’s mouth remained open a moment longer, his mind obviously backtracking at the unforeseen question. “What?”

Natael sniggered. “’What?’” he repeated mockingly. “You heard me. We did see each other last night.” He studied Taim’s reaction attentively. He seemed genuinely taken aback. Blood and ashes, he really didn’t remember. Well, Natael would take delight in reminding him. “You got back late. I don’t know when exactly, but when I saw the light on in your study, I came to investigate.” Taim flinched. Was he remembering? He had to know that he’d been drinking too much, at least, even if he didn’t remember seeing Natael. “I wanted to chew you out for leaving me to deal with your mess. For leaving without telling me. For not letting me know if you intended to ever come back.” Natael hadn’t realised how upset he’d been about this until now. But that wasn’t the point. “You were...inebriated, to say the least. Could barely stand upright or articulate. You started rambling, spewing utter nonsense. Hurtful nonsense.” _You don’t belong. You’re pathetic._ “And then you _attacked_ me.” Taim began to protest, but Natael wasn’t done. “You did. You used _saidin_ against me, knowing full well that I cannot defend myself. Not as well as I used to, anyway,” he amended quickly. _Never admit to weakness in front of your enemies. Unless you intend to trick them._ That was Chosen 101. “And now you keep calling me Nate!” he added for good measure.

Taim waited a moment before responding, to make sure that Natael was done speaking. “I…I’m not sure where ‘Nate’ came from. It’s…shorter, I guess,” he muttered, eyes downcast. “Look, I vaguely remember… I thought I was dreaming… Did I really say all that?” Natael nodded forcefully. Taim let out a mirthless chuckle. “At least it explains why my bookshelf was scorched.” He looked up hesitantly. “Did you…put a blanket over me? Or did I dream that, too?”

Natael flushed. How could he possibly remember that? He’d been asleep, practically comatose! “The nights get cold, despite the heat of the days,” he grumbled. “Anyway. That wasn’t the point. I-” He frowned, trailing off, mouth still open. What _had_ been his point? Great Lord, how frustrating. It was all Taim’s fault. His comment about the flaming blanket had destabilised Natael.

“I’m sorry about what I said,” Taim said softly. “I was drunk, as I’m sure you noticed. I didn’t mean any of it.”

Natael scoffed, but then he remembered what he’d been about to say: some snide remark about Taim crying because he’d had to kill a man. Well, an innocent lad, really, but still. He gazed at Taim, who looked genuinely apologetic, openly embarrassed. “You…” He sighed. “Can I get a bloody mansion, or not?” he demanded.

“I didn’t say you couldn’t, you twit. Just that you ought to talk to me about these things, instead of going behind my back. To avoid this sort of ridiculous situation.” He sighed with exhaustion. “We can’t keep arguing like this. We’re quibbling like children.”

“Like the Chosen,” Natael concurred.

“That’s even worse.” Taim gestured broadly, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Now, which room do you want?”


	13. So is the way of the Chosen

_Looking good, Barid_

_Hardlin, you gossipy wretch_

_I’m not a coward!_

Natael looked out the open window of his study.

They were nearing the end of the year, and yet the weather was still unnaturally warm, as though it were the middle of summer. Natael didn’t know how the lesser recruits survived without the trick to ignoring heat and cold. They had to be boiling in their woollen black coats. But Taim had a point: it was amusing to watch them sweat while their trained outside.

And, as a bonus: most of them took their coats and shirts off while practising their sword forms. Including Narishma.

Not that Natael spent much time watching Narishma, of course, or anyone else. He was quite busy, supervising the Soldiers, giving lessons in the evenings… They had twelve full Asha’man now. Taim’s bedrooms were all claimed. If they raised anyone else, the Asha’man would either have to share a room or move in with Natael, who had sixteen bedrooms. Four more than Taim. The building was a bit higher, too. And decorated with more taste, needless to say.

He’d prefer to have the mansion to himself, however. It was very peaceful up here in his study. He had his harp, he had wine. If there ever was a siege, Natael could survive here for weeks, at the very least.

The room overlooked most of the Black Tower. He’d made certain that he didn’t have a view on Taim’s study, so that the Saldaean couldn’t spy on him.

The sun was finally setting. You’d think that the temperature would go down as night fell, but it barely did. It wasn’t like the Aiel Waste. Natael knew that it was the Great Lord’s work, but he was getting tired of the heat, even though it didn’t really affect him. A proper autumn would have been nice. And a mild winter to follow.

Oh well. There was no use complaining about the weather. There was nothing he or anyone else could do about it. It would likely last until Tarmon Gai’don, and the outcome of the Last Battle would forever decide of the weather: proper, defined seasons or…well, infinite nothingness. Then again, if it came to that, Natael would be dead and wouldn’t have to suffer the heat any longer.

Taim was outside, doing his usual late-evening round. Making sure the main gate was guarded, that all the chores had been seen to. That no one was going mad.

They’d been lucky so far; there hadn’t been any mercy-kill since the first. Natael hoped that the result of his report hadn’t driven Flinn to keep his mouth shut about potential madmen. Natael wasn’t looking forward to poisoning anybody – he’d offered to take care of it, seeing how badly the first had affected Taim – but it was a preferable option to letting an insane channeler go unchecked.

Taim was being quite reasonable, these days. They didn’t argue as much as usual. Their brief cohabitation had been uneventful; Natael had kept to his own room as often as possible, meeting with Taim only to discuss the recruits. He had moved into his own mansion eight days later; the building was finished within five days, but he’d needed to decorate. There were still some minor details to see to, but it was perfectly habitable.

All in all, everything was going well. They were making good progress. The fifty trained men Taim had promised al’Thor were ready for battle, and they could provide a hundred and fifty more – mainly Soldiers, but with knowledge of the most basic offensive Earth and Fire weaves. Recruitment was in full swing. Flinn was gathering more men than Natael could have ever imagined. He’d never expected so many people to pledge their lives to some abstract figure who was basically demanding them to die for him. There could be no other outcome. Everyone at the Black Tower would die eventually, one way or another.

Al’Thor hadn’t deigned show his face since he’d brought his ridiculous pins with him. They still sent reports (to both Cairhien and Caemlyn) but they never received a reply, nor even orders. Natael had no idea what the farm boy was up to.

“You are doing better than expected,” a male voice called from behind him.

Natael jumped. He hadn’t heard anything, hadn’t felt anyone channel _saidin_. He hadn’t bothered to ward the place; the Chosen would easily get past them. Besides, he was supposed to be on their side and well below them. He turned around slowly, wishing that Taim were here, that the intruder had waited for a moment when they were together.

Demandred stood rigidly, hands behind his back. He was wearing standard Andoran finery, but Natael was certain that the Chosen hadn’t infiltrated the territory; he was simply taking precautions. He looked dashing and elegant, though it wouldn’t occur to Natael to say it out loud.

He’d always thought Demandred the most attractive of the Chosen – men and women included. Maybe it was his mysterious, aloof airs. Maybe it was the fact that he exuded confidence and had the bearing of a king. Women usually pointed out that, because of his hooked nose, he didn’t qualify as handsome. Natael believed it made him look distinguished, aristocratic. It rendered his face slightly imperfect, but it did nothing to alter his overall attractiveness, in Natael’s opinion. On the contrary.

Unfortunately, he had a lousy personality.

“Looking good, Barid,” Natael commented offhandedly. “Emerald was always your colour.”

Demandred frowned at the name, then glanced down at himself, as though he’d forgotten what he was wearing. It was quite possible that he had. Demandred was always impeccably dressed, not a hair out of place, but it would surprise people to learn that he cared little about his appearance. He dressed smartly because it was expected of him, not because he wanted to impress. Even when picking outfits designed to confuse the enemy, he looked amazing. Demandred kept scowling as he returned his attention to Natael. It was so easy to perturb him with silly remarks. Now he’d be wondering if Natael knew which nation he’d decided to infiltrate, just because Natael had mentioned his clothing. So was the way of the Chosen.

“As I was saying,” Demandred said, a faint trace of reproach in his soft voice, “you are doing well. The Great Lord is pleased with your progress. If you manage to keep this up, your reward will be attainable before the Last Battle begins.”

“My reward and Taim’s,” Natael corrected him. Why was the Chosen visiting him when he was alone? Was he trying to cause dissension within the Tower? It seemed a foolish move. The unity of the Black Tower was in everyone’s best interest – whether it ended in the hands of the Shadow or those of the Light. Taim and he still hadn’t decided and, given the fact that they hadn’t seen al’Thor in weeks, it was difficult to gauge his sanity. Ideally, if Natael had his way, the Tower would belong to him – and Taim, he supposed – but wouldn’t be attached to either side. It would stand in the midst of it all, a lone, independent, neutral area with no affiliation other than to its rightful leaders. Natael didn’t distinguish between Light and Shadow; in his experience, nothing, and no one, was ever entirely one or the other. The world was grey, not black and white, a simple fact that both minions of the Light and of the Shadow often overlooked – or were unaware of – including Demandred, who thought himself all white; he was the righteous saviour of a world which had failed to recognise that the Dragon was leading it to its downfall. Demandred was willing to forgive the foolishness and misguided mistake of the mortals if they pledged their lives to him and forsook Lews Therin and his newest reincarnation.

Natael sometimes wondered what would happen if Demandred became Nae’blis in Ishamael’s stead, now that Elan was dead. After all, he was the most likely candidate for the vacant position. He was the most accomplished warrior, a cunning and ruthless general, a charismatic leader of men.

And yet, for all his qualities, Demandred had a fatal weakness: his fathomless hatred of Lews Therin, which would, in all likelihood, be the death of him. It was the only thing that had the potential of destabilising him, but when one was a Chosen, a single mistake was all it took. Natael knew that only too well.

“Certainly,” Demandred said flatly. “Taim seemed to be doing most of the work in the beginning, but you’ve picked up your slack, I understand.” It wasn’t meant to be insulting; Demandred was just stating a fact. Yet, even knowing that, Natael couldn’t help but feel offended. He was doing the best he could under difficult circumstances. “You’d do well to give advanced training to more men, however. You have…twelve recruits who’ve made it into your private lessons?” Natael nodded. _Here it comes._ “I find that odd. Several of your…Dedicated seem like they could handle the extra pin.” His lips tightened in disdain, to show what he thought of al’Thor’s extravagant accessories. “Rochaid. Torval. Gedwyn. Dashiva.”

“They are powerful,” Natael conceded. He had to make a conscious effort not to sweat. He really wished Taim were here. He was much better at lying to Demandred’s face. “But they’re fickle, unpredictable. We’ve been monitoring them, but we suspect that the taint may have gotten to them already.” It was only true in Dashiva’s case. They were monitoring him very closely indeed. The others were simply untrustworthy.

Demandred waved indifferently. “It doesn’t matter if they’re half-mad. They’re strong. You will raise them.”

Blood and ashes! They’d already come up with a contingency plan, of course, but Natael wasn’t looking forward to it. He would have to teach the unreliable Asha’man himself, while Taim looked after the others. They’d have to be separated; that was where Natael’s mansion would come in handy.

He wasn’t looking forward to living with these brutish fools. He was even less keen on Demandred finding out what they were planning, though. “Fine, we’ll raise them. If you insist.”

Demandred gave him a flat stare. “It wasn’t a question, Nessosin. It was a command.”

“Yes, well, I said I would do it, didn’t I? Is there anything else?” he asked with some annoyance.

“You ought to be prepared for battle.” Demandred opened a gateway, but it didn’t reveal much of interest; only the same organised desk that Natael had already seen before.

Natael frowned. “We are. Why? Has something happened?” Taim had spies all over Andor, as well as in some other cities, but they’d heard no important news in recent days.

“Be prepared, that is all,” Demandred repeated. He stepped inside the gateway, presumably in his own study, and closed the portal without another word.

“’Good evening, Joar’,” Natael spoke into the empty air. “’It’s nice to see you. How have you been lately? I hope Taim isn’t giving you a hard time. He can be a pain in the bottom, sometimes.’” Natael sighed. “’Oh, you know, he’s not so bad. He’s an acquired taste, I suppose. By the way, Barid dear, you absolutely must give me the name of your tailor.’”

“So you _are_ mad,” someone called from the _other_ doorway.

For the second time that evening, Natael was startled. Taim had come up through the secret entrance. (Yes, there was a secret passage leading from the kitchens to Natael’s study. You never knew when such a thing would come in handy, in Natael’s line of work, especially with his reduced strength in the Power.) “What in the Pit of Doom is wrong with you? How many times must I remind you to bloody _knock_?”

Taim looked like he didn’t know whether to smile or not. He seemed genuinely concerned about what he’d just witnessed, but he also appeared to be holding back laughter.

Natael backtracked. “Oh, no. Did Demandred see you? Does he know about the secret door?”

Taim’s mouth finally quirked into a smile. “The ‘secret door’,” he scoffed. “Natael, by now everyone at the Black Tower knows that you have a concealed exit in here. Hardlin is even more of a gossip than his wife.”

Natael did _not_ know that. Why hadn’t Taim warned him _before_ he’d had the bloody man design the tunnel? Still, he affected not to care. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said testily.

“I don’t think he knows I was here,” Taim replied more seriously. “But I didn’t hear what you were discussing. Is something wrong? Is he unto us?”

“Not really, but he did enquire about Rochaid and his ilk. We have to promote them.”

Taim’s face hardened. “Plan B it is, then. You will lodge them here?” Natael nodded reluctantly. “Good. I’ll explain to Flinn, so he can warn the others. The less contact they have, the better. We have to keep them separated at all cost. There’s a good chance that one or several of our future Asha’man are spies. Demandred’s, or someone else’s, not that it makes much difference.”

Natael poured himself a glass of wine. He desperately needed one. There was a slight tremor in his hands as he held the crystal pitcher. People had to stop barging into his house unannounced, for pity’s sake. “They may even be spying for two or more Chosen. Brainless Darkfriends, thinking that they can be double agents, then try to blackmail us, hoping to elevate themselves to a higher rank…” He sniggered. That never ended well for the mortals, but was often useful to the Chosen.

“Yes, well, either way, Rochaid and the others cannot know that the rest of the Asha’man are loyal only to us, not to the Chosen. They cannot know that they know.”

Natael took a long sip of wine. “You’re making my brain hurt, Taim. Have some wine and relax. My chairs are quite comfortable.” And aesthetically pleasing, of course, unlike Taim’s. The man had a taste for gaudy furniture.

“Relax?” Taim scoffed. “You’re the jumpy one, Natael. You nearly fell out the window when I spoke up earlier.”

“I’d seen you outside just before Demandred arrived. I couldn’t have known that you’d sneak up on me through the not-so-secret door while I was distracted!” he huffed.

“I wasn’t _sneaking_ ,” Taim protested. “I glimpsed a tall, broad silhouette in the study, and I got wor-” He cleared his throat. “I was curious to know who it was. Can you blame me, under the circumstances?” he added coolly.

Had he been about to say _worried_? Interesting. “Well, never mind that now,” Natael said. “Our friend Barid also told me that we should be ready for battle.”

Taim considered that for a moment. “Why are people always so bloody enigmatic and vague when they say ominous things like that?” he muttered wistfully. “It’d help to know when and where and who we’ll be fighting.”

Natael shrugged. That was a valid remark, but there was nothing they could do but wait. Besides, there was a good chance that Demandred hadn’t been more specific simply because he didn’t know the specifics himself – though he’d never admit it, of course. “So is the way of the Chosen,” he said crookedly. The phrase was an informal Shadowy equivalent of the _Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills_ saying that the modern Aes Sedai were so fond of. Natael had coined it himself. And was the only one who used it, like as not. “We like to be mysterious. It’s good for our image.”

Taim didn’t seem to find that amusing. In fact, though it wasn’t blatant, Natael could tell that the man was uncharacteristically tense. “Do you think he meant… Is the Last Battle underway? My spies have reported nothing of the sort.”

Natael had his own spies – mainly servants, no channelers – and nothing seemed to indicate that Tarmon Gai’don was upon them. There was trouble brewing in several places, of course, but wasn’t there always trouble somewhere, especially at a time like this? “I doubt it.”

“Do you think Demandred is planning an attack?” Taim went on relentlessly.

“I don’t know, alright? I told you exactly what he told me. I’m not withholding information from you, Taim.” Natael didn’t expect the younger man to trust him – Taim would be stupid to trust him, or anyone, for that matter – but Natael was being entirely truthful. Wasn’t it obvious? He had no reason to lie. It wasn’t in his interest to do so. “Though if that were the case, I don’t see why he’d let us know. Demandred wouldn’t ask us to join him in battle at this point. He won’t play his cards this early in the game. We’re meant to be a decisive, unexpected ally of the Shadow during the Last Battle, but before that, we’re supposed to pretend to be on al’Thor’s side.” Honestly, a child could understand this. When had Taim become so dense? “In fact, I suspect that Demandred won’t attack at all until the very last moment.” He wouldn’t attack _openly_ , at least. He was too subtle for that. “He’ll do his best not to attract the boy’s attention, so he can’t be rooted out like the other fools.” Namely, Be’lal, Rahvin and Sammael. All men. The ladies were definitely winning this game, though they had an advantage: al’Thor wouldn’t harm a woman if his life depended on it. Moiraine Sedai had had to get rid of Lanfear on her own.

“That’s a shrewd analysis,” Taim conceded. Of course it was. What else did he expect from Natael? “Have you figured out where Demandred has established his evil lair?”

Natael had thought it over, certainly. More than once. There were several possibilities, but none was more likely than the other. They all had their pros and cons; Natael couldn’t rule any of them out, and that left him with too many options to make an educated guess. “No,” he replied simply. There was no point trying to guess, anyway. When the time came, they would know and, in the meantime, Demandred’s location was of no consequence to them. Even if Natael did know, what would he do with the information? Sell the Chosen to al’Thor? If the boy didn’t kill Demandred, that would be the end of Natael’s life, without a chance of narrow escape this time. As for blackmailing Demandred…that wasn’t even an option. Demandred wouldn’t just kill him. He would turn him over to Semirhage, and that was a fate even worse than death. “And I suggest that you don’t wrack your brain trying to find him, if you know what’s good for you.”

Taim was studying him, likely wondering if Natael was telling the truth, but he made no other comment on the subject. A wise decision. “Regardless, we have some planning to do. If Demandred didn’t say _when_ we should be ready, I think we ought to be ready as soon as possible. Tomorrow morning, I want you to select a hundred and fifty Soldiers and give them intensive training. Leave the rest with Mishraile. When the time comes, we’ll split the Dedicated – half of them should stay here with you, and at least one Asha’man, to defend the Tower in my absence-”

“Whoa, hold on,” Natael interrupted him. “I’m not staying behind.”

Taim threw him a genuinely perplexed look. “You want to fight? You?”

What was he implying? That Natael was craven? “I don’t _want_ to fight, idiot. Nobody wants to fight. But I won’t run away from battle, not if our men are on the line. They’ll need guidance. They’ll need leadership.” Taim’s expression was utterly unreadable. “Not that you can’t provide either of those, but they’ll need large quantities of both. They’ve never been in an actual fight. Like as not, it’ll be messy. They’ll be terrified. It’s best if we’re both there. Besides, my reputation among them is bad enough, I don’t want to add _coward_ to the rumours,” he added bitterly.

Taim opened his mouth, then closed it, looking away. The silence stretched for an uncomfortably long time.

“I’m not asking for your permission to go,” Natael said firmly. “I’m telling you that I’m going.” He smirked. “But you’re welcome to stay here, if you’re worried about leaving the Tower undefended.”

“Natael, this is commendable, but…” Taim hesitated. He still wouldn’t meet Natael’s gaze. “You can barely channel a trickle...”

“I can take care of myself,” Natael protested. He wasn’t some random weakling, Shadow blind him! Reduced strength or not, he was one of the Chosen!

“I’m not worried about your safety, you fool,” Taim said through clenched jaws, all hesitation gone from his voice. “I’m worried about you being a liability on the battlefield.”

Natael gaped at him. The presumptuousness!

Taim wasn’t quite done. “I can’t have the men looking out for you. I can’t afford to be distracted. If you come, you will be on your own. I can’t spare channelers to shield you, Nate.” He exhaled sharply through his hooked nose. “Natael.” He seemed increasingly annoyed with himself every time he used the shortened version of Natael’s name.

Natael had been annoyed at first, too, but he was getting used to it. He wished he could think of a nickname for Taim, but it was difficult to shorten a one-syllable name. Unless he resorted to… “I understand, Mazrim.”

Taim’s face changed colour. “Don’t… You…! Nobody ever…” he sputtered.

“I know,” Natael said. “It sounds incredibly strange to say it out loud. I do hope I’m saying it right, because – funny story – I used to think that your second name was pronounced _tame_.” He grinned broadly.

“Get out,” Taim said softly. “And don’t _ever_ -”

Natael’s grin faded. “Get out?” he repeated. “This is _my_ study! _You_ get out!”

Taim’s eyes widened, and he looked around him. He’d genuinely forgotten where he was. He glared at Natael, as though it were somehow his fault, then marched out of the room, using the falsely-secret exit.

Was he truly that upset at the use of his first name, or was there something more sinister at play? He couldn’t be going mad, could he? He’d held the madness at bay for so long…couldn’t he suppress it for a few more months, until the Last Battle was over? Natael didn’t want to manage the whole Black Tower by himself. Didn’t want to deal with the Forsak…um, with the Chosen all alone. Or with al’Thor.

Loath as he was to admit it, especially considering Taim’s “liability” comment, Natael needed the other man.

For the time being, at least.


	14. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof

_Gators are extinct_

_There’s a Chosen in our midst_

_But we are winning_

“I don’t like this,” Natael muttered under his breath for the twelfth time that afternoon.

He was standing in the corridor that led to the guest bedrooms of his palace (might as well call a spade a spade; many noblemen of this Age had smaller, shabbier dwellings than this). The newly-raised Asha’man were moving in, carrying their belongings from the barracks with threads of Air. Coteren was having a laugh, purposefully bumping his scarce possessions against his comrades or tripping them. At least he was laughing until Kisman threatened to skewer him with his sword. Raefar Kisman was one of the few Asha’man who, despite their relative strength in the Power, actually knew how to wield a blade. He was skilled at it, too, and he liked to practice an hour every day before the morning roll call.

They shouldn’t have raised Coteren. For one thing, he wasn’t very strong in the Power, compared to the others and, for another, he was quite dumb.

Dumb and a bit gross, too. His dark oily hair looked like it hadn’t been washed in over a year. Coteren certainly smelled like he hadn’t encountered clean water and soap in quite some time. Natael would need to have a word with him about personal hygiene, before the stench of his body odour could permeate the freshly-built palace.

He would make a “good” Dreadlord, though. He was greedy, cruel. Too stupid to be a leader, unlike Rochaid and Gedwyn, but he was sufficiently nasty to appease Demandred.

In any case, it was too late, now. They couldn’t take the dragon pin back, not unless Coteren committed a serious offense. In truth, Natael wouldn’t put it past him to do just that. He had bet Taim that they’d have to execute him by week’s end; the way he behaved around the women who lived at the Tower, he would hang from the gallows in no time, especially now that he believed himself above the rules by which the Soldiers and Dedicated had to abide. Natael had already reprimanded him twice since he’d been given the gold-and-red pin, barely two hours ago. He had no respect for authority and he was a bully, but the good news was that his fellow Asha’man, the ones with whom Coteren would have to share living quarters, couldn’t stand him, either. They would keep him in line, hopefully.

Peral Torval approached and bowed slightly to Natael. “Everyone is settled in, Ghraem. What are your orders?” He had the grace to sound polite. He didn’t smirk. And yet Natael could tell that, like many of his peers, he resented having to defer to him.

“Assemble in the library. I would speak to all of you.” That was where their lessons would take place.

Ten minutes later, the domestics had laid out tea and biscuits on a table in the library and Natael was seated in the only chair in the room. The Asha’man were clearly unhappy that they had to stand and concealed their displeasure with various degrees of success. Coteren was failing altogether.

“I trust that your new quarters are satisfactory,” Natael began. A few of them nodded. They ought to praise his exquisite taste in design and decoration, but he couldn’t force them to be enthused about the rich, velvety purple curtains or the polished pine wood of their custom-made beds. “As Asha’man, you are the most loyal and trustworthy servants of the Black Tower,” he went on. Oh, they didn’t like that word, _servants_ , Natael could tell. “You are role models to the lesser channelers and you represent the Tower abroad. You must therefore behave exemplarily. Taim and I will tolerate no transgression from you. There will be no mercy, no special treatment.” He was fixing Coteren as he spoke, but the man was gazing hungrily at the lemon bars and assorted delicacies displayed on the table. Good gracious. He had the attention span of a five-year-old. “Moreover, you are pledged to secrecy. What you learn during your advanced lessons must not leave this room. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes, Ghraem,” Manel Rochaid said obligingly, though Natael perceived the strong undercurrent of sarcasm in his voice. No one would dare use that tone with M’Hael – but Taim was stronger in the Power than anyone here, except perhaps Corlan Dashiva. The plain-looking man might be stronger than even Natael, when his ability to channel was unrestricted by Lanfear’s shield.

They would have to keep a close watch on that one. The fellow’s eyes shifted from Rochaid to Natael, then fixated on the floor. He was muttering to himself again, though too low for Natael to hear what he was saying. With any luck, he’d have a good reason to poison Dashiva’s wine before too long. The man gave him the creeps.

Well. Time for the grand revelation.

“The first thing you will learn is that I have been masquerading as a weak channeler of this Age all along,” he said. That did spark some genuine interest. “I am, in fact, one of the Chosen. I am Asmodean.” When he’d confessed to the other Asha’man, only Flinn had taken the news stoically. The rest had gasped, gaped and nearly fainted in horror.

This new batch of Asha’man welcomed the announcement with sniggers and twisted grins. Dashiva actually burst out laughing, slapping his thighs with his hands.

“Are you, now?” Gedwyn said with an amused smile.

“Of course I am!” Natael exclaimed. “Only a fool would claim to be one of the Chosen if they were not. The Great Lord of the Dark would strike me down for my presumptuousness.”

Rochaid was studying him curiously. “Prove it.”

Natael threw up his arms in annoyance. “How in the Pit of Doom am I supposed to prove it? The Chosen don’t wear ostentatious pins, burn you!”

“Draw on _saidin_ ,” Torval suggested. “Let us see how much you can truly hold. That is, I _assume_ that you’re only pretending to be weaker than Coteren here, Great Master?” he said wryly.

Natael froze in place. Flinn and the others had accepted his true identity without question. They had not demanded proof. Because they were afraid of him, of what he was: they knew that, if he was who he claimed to be, he could destroy them without moving from his seat. They had not dared take the chance of not believing him, knowing the risk.

These idiots, however… Natael was willing to bet that they wouldn’t have asked _Demandred_ for proof, no matter how weak he appeared to be.

To be fair, he’d had Taim at his side to corroborate his story, the first time. Taim wasn’t here now. All they had was Natael’s word and, clearly, it didn’t mean much to them.

“I don’t have to prove myself to you,” he said haughtily. They sneered at him. Blood and flaming ashes! “I am the greatest musician to have ever lived. Surely you can tell. You’ve heard me play and sing several times. You’ve had the unprecedented honour to hear original pieces of my own composition.” That ought to do it.

Torval shrugged. “I’ve never heard anyone else play the harp. How would I know if you’re good at it, if I have nothing to compare it to?”

Kisman nodded in agreement. “I don’t know the first thing about music. For all I know, you sing off-key.”

Natael stared at him in outrage. _Off-key_?! How _dare_ he…? He took a long, calming breath. They were testing him. He had to be smarter than them. “Very well. I was going to offer you to become Dreadlords, so that you would no longer suffer from the taint and have access to power and knowledge that only the Chosen have access to, but I see that I’ve misjudged you. You are just as unworthy as the rest of them.” He stood up and adjusted his teal silk coat. “You may join the M’Hael in his gaudy palace, with the other puppets of the Light. Have fun learning how to ethically incapacitate an Aes Sedai.” Nobody moved. He made a shooing gesture in their direction. “Off you go, then, little pawns.”

Coteren cleared his throat. “Dreadlords don’t suffer from the taint?” he asked hesitantly.

Natael arched an eyebrow. “You will still sense it when you channel, but it will no longer affect you. You will not go mad. You will never die.” A lie, all a lie, but if you dangled something appealing enough in front of them and rubbed them up the right way, people would accept almost anything.

“So Flinn and the others… They’re not Dreadlords?” Torval said.

Natael scoffed. “Of course not. They don’t have what it takes. I was forced to raise them because al’Thor demanded it, because they are powerful channelers, but that is the extent of their talents.”

“But…what about Taim?”

Ah. He was Taim now, not M’Hael. Good. “A mere lackey under the Dragon's thumb. I would have done away with him, but we don’t want to elicit suspicion, do we? Al’Thor put us both in charge. If something were to happen to Taim, I would be the prime suspect. We must keep a low profile until the Last Battle.”

They were all nodding along now, except Dashiva, who was glaring at the carpeted floor. His mouth was working, but no sound came out.

“Taim has been recruiting his own private army, but it’s my turn now,” Natael went on. “Join me, and you will be rewarded. Power, wealth, immortality… It is all within your reach, if you choose to serve and obey.”

Rochaid was the first on his knees. “I pledge my soul to the Great Lord of the Dark.”

Uh. He didn’t do things by half, that one. One moment he was doubting and mocking Natael, the next he was forfeiting his soul to the Shadow – even though that was not an actual requirement.

Technically, the requirement was to swear on an Oath Rod, but Natael, of course, did not have one in his possession. As the others fell to their knees and repeated Rochaid’s words, Natael decided to continue to bluff his way through this. He waited until Dashiva, the last one to give in, was on the floor, eyes downcast, then he seized _saidin_ and drew what little he could manage. He weaved a complicated web of tiny threads of all five elements and released it. They gasped as it hit them. The weave he’d used was merely meant to make people shudder with cold, then feel a sudden surge of warmth, but apparently it served its purpose. “Repeat after me,” Natael said. He listed their duties as fake Dreadlords and they parroted him eagerly. He made them swear to obey him, and the Great Lord _through_ him. They pledged their lives to him.

This wasn’t the plan, not exactly. He was only supposed to reveal himself to them and gain their loyalty, just like they’d done with the Asha’man who served the Light. He was supposed to teach them a few fancy tricks and promise to make them Dreadlords just before the Last Battle. But the other Asha’man were clearly more loyal to Taim than they were to Natael. Shouldn’t he have his own private guards, in case things went south? In case Taim betrayed him?

“Rise now, Dreadlords,” he proclaimed as he released the Source. It was difficult to keep a straight face. They looked solemn but amazed, as if Natael had just bestowed upon them the gifts of invincibility and immortality. Coteren’s mouth was parted in awe, which made him look even more stupid.

“Thank you, Ghraem,” Torval murmured, his head bowed. There was no trace of sarcasm in his voice now, no resentment.

“Thank you, Great Master,” Kisman and Gedwyn said in unison.

Natael nodded in satisfaction. “We will begin our lessons tomorrow evening. Rochaid, I trust you to divide the chores evenly amongst yourselves.” They whispered in assent. “You are dismissed.”

One by one, they filed out of the library. Natael turned his back on them and eyed the tea and biscuits that no one had touched. A waste, but he wanted wine, not tea. He was about to ring the bell to summon a serving maid when he realised that he was not alone in the room. Someone had appropriated the chair.

Natael put his hands on his hips and scowled at Dashiva. Mad or not, the man couldn’t just-

“Well, well, Nessosin. I don’t even know where to begin.”

Natael reflexively seized _saidin_. No one called him Nessosin, except the Chosen, occasionally. “Who are you?” he demanded. “What is this?”

“A very good question indeed,” Dashiva noted. “What in the Great Lord’s name _is_ this? What do you think you’re doing? You betrayed us, Nessosin. You have no right to pretend to a status that is no longer yours. I ought to kill you right here and now for this blasphemy.” Thankfully, he did no such thing.

“I’m acting on Demandred’s orders,” Natael said, too hastily. “He offered me a chance to recover my former title. I rule here in his name – in the Great Lord’s name. The Black Tower has been claimed by the Shadow.” That was only partly true, but chances were that, whoever this impostor was, he wasn’t aware of the extent of Demandred’s involvement.

Dashiva observed him keenly, all signs of his faked madness gone. “This was Barid Bel’s ploy, mm? Well, it was my idea first,” he said with a sour grimace. “The difference is that I wasn’t handed command of the Black Tower on a silver platter. You have no right to order me about, Nessosin. _You_ will do as _I_ command, not the other way around. I am one of the Chosen. You are a spineless traitor and an opportunistic rat.”

“I am only doing what Demandred, another Chosen, has ordered me to do,” Natael insisted. “Will you go against his will, whoever you are?” He couldn’t figure it out. Weren’t most of the male Chosen dead, save Demandred and Sammael? Was this a new pawn in the game? It seemed improbable, since the man referred to Natael by his third name. But why would Sammael interfere in Black Tower business at this point, when he was ruling over Illian? “You know who I am. It’s only fair that you tell me-”

“The world once knew me as Ishar Morrad Chuain.”

Oh, bother. Natael grimly released the Source. It was useless.

Aginor had returned from the dead.

* * *

“I trust that everything went according to plan?” Taim wondered, idly swirling the wine in his glass.

They were taking a break from their daily debrief in Natael’s cosy sitting room. “It did.”

Taim eyed him sideways, frowning. The answer was too curt, and Natael had not bragged about his successful afternoon. Of course the man would be suspicious.

But what was there to say? A dead Chosen had resurfaced and was blackmailing him. Natael wanted to disclose everything he’d learned to Taim, so they’d share in the burden of that knowledge, but he simply couldn’t. Aginor – who had been renamed Osan’gar by the Great Lord – would make Natael’s existence a living hell if he told anyone. _Serve me, and perhaps I won’t let Demandred know of your little scheme. Obey me, and perhaps you shall live to witness the Great Lord’s triumph. Betray me, and I will turn you into a creature more twisted even than a boar-faced Trolloc._

There was nothing he could do. He did, however, wonder if Demandred knew who “Corlan Dashiva” was. After all, the man had been on his list of Dedicated to be promoted, but was it mere coincidence, or had the two Chosen formed an alliance? He hoped to find out, at least, though it would hardly lessen his predicament.

“They…did not believe me, at first,” Natael mumbled. It had been incredibly vexing, and it would satisfy Taim’s curiosity, even if it wasn’t the actual reason behind Natael’s present grouchiness. “They did not believe that I was Asmodean. Though why I’d pretend to be the weakest, least appreciated of the Chosen, I can’t say.” He sounded quite bitter, even to his own ears. Well, he _was_ bitter. Things had finally been looking up – sort of – but now he was even worse off than before. Now he had to watch out not only for Taim, al’Thor and Demandred, but also Osan’gar and the Great Lord knew how many of his previously deceased colleagues. Had Balthamel and Be’lal returned? Rahvin?

…Ishamael?

No, no, no. Certainly not. If they’d been resuscitated, if Elan, especially, had been brought back from the dead, surely Natael would know about it by now.

“Weakest?” Taim said. “I thought Be’lal was the least powerful of the male Chosen.”

“Right now, I am the weakest of all the Chosen, including the ladies.” He snorted. “I am not even one of the Chosen. I am just another underling, to be used and manipulated at will by my betters, a victim of their cruel whims.”

Taim smirked. “How poetic. You should turn this into one of your silly songs.”

“It’s not funny,” he muttered. He did make a mental note of his own words, though, for later consideration. There was some potential here.

“What’s gotten into you?” Taim's smile slid off his face just as quickly as it appeared. “Everything is going remarkably well, given the circumstances. Our daring strategy, albeit dangerous, is paying off. No one suspects anything. Why are you so bloody miserable? You’re even whinier than usual.”

“You know, when you say things like that, it only makes it worse,” he noted dryly.

“Seriously, Natael.” Taim leaned forward in his seat, a look of concern on his dark face. “Is something amiss? Is it just because they wouldn’t believe you? I thought you’d be used to their attitude by now. Consider the men we raised: all of them are self-important bullies, and Coteren has only half a brain. If that. Of course they wouldn’t believe you. They follow strength and power and nothing else. It doesn’t matter to them that you’re smarter than any three of them put together. It doesn’t matter that the Black Tower runs effortlessly thanks to you and no one else.”

Natael buried his face in his glass of wine. He was afraid that he might blush, if the barely-veiled praise continued for much longer. How drunk was Taim?

Perhaps Natael ought to tell him everything. After all, if they were careful, Osan’gar would never find out, and at least Taim would be in the know, if something went wrong. Maybe he ought to confess that he’d been forced to pretend to swear in the Asha’man as Dreadlords, as well. Now that he really thought about it, he trusted Taim a good deal more than any of the Asha’man – good and bad ones alike. And Taim trusted him in return, didn’t he?

But what if it was all an act? What if Taim was buttering him up only to find out what secrets Natael was keeping from him?

What if Taim was really serving Demandred or Aginor or another Chosen in disguise and had been ordered to keep an eye on Natael, to see if he would, once again, betray his former allies?

He couldn’t risk it. That was “Serving the Great Lord 101” (or, in Natael’s experience, “How to Stay Alive 101”): _don’t trust anyone._

_Don’t trust anyone_ , no matter how much you might want to. No matter how lonely and scared you were.

_Don’t let them see how scared you are._ That had actually been Ishamael’s first and only advice to him, when he’d joined the Shadow. Natael had, of course, protested and insisted that he was not afraid of anyone, but Elan had always seen right through him.

He had been absolutely correct, too, burn him.

“Natael?” Taim was saying. “Are you listening to me?”

Natael blinked at him. He had zoned out, had almost forgotten that the other man was still here. Apparently, Taim had been trying to catch his attention for a moment. He looked both impatient and concerned.

“I’m hanging on your every word,” Natael lied.

Any other day, Taim would have made some derisive comment, but instead he bore into Natael’s eyes intensely, as if he were trying to read his mind. “Are you sure there’s nothing you want to tell me?”

_Nope, nothing,_ Natael thought. _Everything is peachy._

Then, barely half a second later: “Aginor has infiltrated the Tower,” he blurted out.

“ _What?!_ ”

Natael mentally cursed himself, wishing he could swallow the words back. What was wrong with him? Had he not just deliberately decided _not_ to involve Taim in this matter? Darkness within!

“Aginor?” Taim repeated, confusion plain on his handsome face. “I thought he was dead!”

“No, no, you misheard me,” Natael stammered. “I said, _a gator_ has infiltrated the Tower. Via the sewers. We, um, ought to do something about that before it, um, hurts someone.”

Taim stared at him. “A what?”

“Er, you know, an alligator.” Taim continued to stare blankly. “A large reptile with a fearsome, elongated maw?”

Taim snorted with sudden laughter. “You’re a terrible, terrible liar, Nate.” He chuckled again. Natael had never seen such a display of real humour from him. “An alligator. Honestly. That is the stuff of fairytales and children’s books. These mythical creatures don’t exist.”

They didn’t? Oh. They must have become extinct at some point in the last three millennia. How unlucky.

Taim finally got his mirth under control. “So... Aginor?”

Natael exhaled heavily. “Dashiva.”

“I _knew_ there was something off about that one,” Taim said wistfully.

“Taim, I… I may have gotten ahead of myself somewhat. I, um, pretended to raise the new Asha’man as Dreadlords.” Might as well come clean about everything, considering the mess he’d already made. “I used a simple weave and made them swear an oath to me-”

“And they bought it?” Taim asked incredulously, his eyebrows rising.

“They did, yes. Except Dashiva, obviously. He’s threatened to-”

“Nate, that is brilliant.”

Natael lost the thread of what he was about to say, his mouth hanging open. “It is?” This was not the reaction he’d expected, far from it.

“Of course it is. Now we have powerful partisans of the Light on our side as well as wannabe Dreadlords. We can satisfy everyone! If al’Thor ever deigns to visit us again, we’ll show off Flinn and the others. If Demandred wants results, we have Rochaid and his ilk. And in the midst of it all, there’s us, belonging to neither Light nor Shadow.” Well, technically, Taim was a sworn Dreadlord, but that could be undone, if they somehow acquired an Oath Rod. They really ought to look into that. “We have our own army, loyal only to us, as planned, and we can use it however we want when the time comes. The false Dreadlords will obey you blindly and the rest will follow…” There was a slight pause. “… _our_ orders, hopefully. I did explain to them what we planned to do with the Asha’man that Demandred forced upon us. They know you’re only pretending.”

Natael sighed with relief. Taim wasn’t angry. Things weren’t as bad as he had initially assumed. Although… “What about Aginor? He threatened to report me to Demandred if I revealed his true identity to you. And...well, he wanted me to tell him exactly what we were up to.”

“What did you tell him?” For once, Taim’s face was quite unreadable.

“That you were a proper Dreadlord, sworn in by Demandred. That, as long as my shield held, I had to feign being your ally in all this, but that my goal, ultimately, was to be restored to my former status. I said I was trying to redeem myself in the Great Lord’s eyes, so that I might serve him again. I also told him that Flinn and the others were aware of who I am, that they knew about Demandred. That they knew precisely what they were getting into.”

“Implying that they, too, are Dreadlords,” Taim finished for him.

“I thought it would give them some protection,” Natael explained. “If he thought we were all on the same side. The reason I gave for splitting the Asha’man in two different buildings is simple: a matter of space.” That was not entirely untrue, actually. “All of your guest bedchambers are occupied, so I offered mine, until we can no longer afford to give each man his own private room. I think he accepted that justification.”

Taim nodded absent-mindedly. “Did he ask anything else of you?”

“I’m to report to him any reliable news of al’Thor, though he seems to understand that it is a rare enough thing. I must also let him know what you do, especially if it’s something I find irregular or unusual.”

“Is he in cahoots with Demandred?”

Natael shook his head. “I was wondering about that myself. Is it some sort of twisted stratagem? But theirs would be an unlikely alliance, I must say. They have naught in common and Demandred is rather condescending toward anyone who has no martial expertise. Still, it’s a possibility, we ought to keep that in mind.”

“We’ll know soon enough, I should think. If Aginor reports this to him, he’ll certainly pay us another visit.”

Natael swallowed some bile. Technically, they had done what Demandred had asked of them, but they weren’t out of the woods yet.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it, though,” Taim said dismissively.

_Easier said than done_ , Natael thought. If Demandred found out about this, Natael would be the one in trouble, not Taim.

“I doubt that Dashiva will be a real nuisance,” Taim went on. “And if he becomes one, well, no one will miss him.”

“You want to _kill_ him?”

“If need be,” he replied with a shrug. “But I don’t think it’ll come to that. From what you’ve told me, the other Asha’man are not aware of who he is, but they do know who _you_ are. They’ll have even fewer reasons to believe Dashiva if he chooses to reveal his identity…” His eyes widened suddenly. “This reminds me: how in the Pit of Doom is Aginor alive? You said he was dead, and al’Thor confirmed it. So how…?”

“The Great Lord has given him a second chance; a new body and a new name. He is Osan’gar, now.”

“The Dark One can resurrect his minions at will?” Taim asked softly. He usually took everything in stride, but this genuinely seemed to shake him.

“Well…apparently,” Natael said. He had no idea that this was a thing the Great Lord could do. It had never happened before, to his knowledge.

Taim then asked the question that had bothered Natael for several hours: “What about the others?”

“Dashiva was quite unforthcoming with his answers. I really don’t know.”

“Should we warn al’Thor?”

Huh. Natael had not considered that. “How would we explain that we know this without revealing Aginor’s presence at the Tower? The boy may rid us of him – again – but it will alert the other Chosen, if they know who Dashiva really is.”

“Mm, good point,” Taim said. At that moment, he seemed to remember the glass of wine in his hand and took a sip. “We don’t want to draw unnecessary attention to the Black Tower. I will ignore Dashiva for now and pretend nothing has changed. You will play the part of the properly cowed flunky and remain in Aginor’s good graces.” He gave Natael that infuriating half-smile of his. “It shouldn’t be too difficult.”

Natael rolled his eyes. They’d _almost_ made it through an entire day without Taim being insulting for no reason.

“Oh, do cheer up, Nate,” Taim said. “You did well today. You handled a complicated and dangerous situation masterfully, and now we know who Dashiva really is. We have the advantage. We are _winning_ , Ghraem. And we have good wine,” he added, raising his glass.

Winning? Winning what? Was this all a game to him? Their lives were at stake! Actually, the fate of mankind itself was at stake. He ought to take this a little more seriously.

On the other hand, it had been a rather challenging day, and…well, Natael _had_ handled everything quite masterfully. He had earned his daily dose of grape juice. Slowly, he raised his own glass and clinked Taim’s.

Taim grinned. “Here’s to outsmarting the Forsaken.”


	15. History remembers the battle, but forgets the blood

_Oh, the violence_

_Twinkle, twinkle, little star_

_No more lustful dreams_

Natael had always done his best to avoid conflict, when at all possible. He abhorred violence in general. Violence was gruesome, inelegant, messy. It was no way to resolve a dispute; it only led to several more disputes. Blood always demanded blood. There was no finesse in war, no subtlety, though renowned commanders such as Demandred and Lews Therin Telamon would disagree with him on that account. Then again, perhaps they’d never been in the thick of it. As generals, they led their troops from a safe distance.

That did not mean that Natael had not done his share of bloodshed, of course. In this unsophisticated Age, what people remembered of him was apparently limited to what Natael had done to his rivals, soon after he became one of the Chosen. How he had “maimed” them. The term was an exaggeration, in his estimation. A tongue here, a finger there. Sometimes a hand. It was nothing, compared to what Semirhage or Aginor would do for the sake of what they called science.

Another Shaido warrior exploded, then another, then an entire row of them, spraying guts and other bodily particles on the sticky, muddy ground. A single drop of blood landed right on Natael’s cheek and he hastily wiped it off with his handkerchief. The embroidered piece of silk was grimy already. So was Natael’s face, in all likelihood. His coat had certainly seen better days. He coughed heavily; the air was thick with dust and smoke.

Would the carnage ever end? Why were the Shaido still attacking? Hadn’t they yet realised that there was no winning this battle?

Just as Natael thought it, they began to retreat. _About bloody time._

Instead of letting them go, however, al’Thor yelled at Taim to keep the earth roiling and the weaves of Fire burning. _Send a message to Sevanna_ , the Dragon Reborn said.

It couldn’t have lasted more than a few minutes until al’Thor finally got sick of it. To Natael, it felt like years. His ears rang with the screams of the dying. Taim’s face was expressionless as he ordered the men to stop, but Natael could tell that, deep down, he wasn’t faring much better than their charges – one of the younger recruits was heaving, another looked ready to faint. Natael didn’t blame them. He felt rather queasy himself.

He didn’t pay much attention to what was happening around him; he sat down on a boulder and waited for al’Thor to commend their exemplary and impeccably-timed rescue. The boy awkwardly complimented Taim on his training, ignoring Natael entirely, then turned toward the Aes Sedai who were responsible for this mayhem. Capturing al’Thor. Honestly, what had they been thinking? What were they hoping to accomplish? Had they truly expected a different outcome? The Dragon was going to execute them for sure, and rightly so.

That was without taking into account his _ta’veren_ -ness.

Natael frowned when Taim commanded the Aes Sedai to kneel – and gaped openly when they did, all nine of them.

* * *

“Uh. So _that_ happened,” Natael said. Taim and he were alone in their command tent, after a rather short debrief with al’Thor. The Black Tower hadn’t lost a single channeler.

“If given the choice between kneeling and dying…” Taim shrugged. “Well, we’ve already made our choice, haven’t we?”

“I didn’t think that the boy had it in him. All that senseless brutality, when the Aiel were already retreating…” Attacking the enemy as they retreated was something the Chosen would have done. If it served their purpose.

“The fewer Shaido, the better,” Taim said absent-mindedly. Natael could tell that his mind was not really in the conversation.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, and the words were out of his mouth before his brain could catch up to them. What was he doing?

Taim shot him an odd look. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” he said hastily. Taim lifted an eyebrow, obviously unconvinced by that answer. Natael cleared his throat. “It’s just… You, um… How does it feel, knowing that you’re responsible for the death of so many?”

“I barely channeled at all today,” Taim said. “I was mostly directing the men.”

“That’s what it means to be a leader, Taim. You’re responsible for what the men under your command do. If they massacre half an army, it’s on you. They did it because _you_ ordered them to do it.”

“Well, yes, I know that,” he replied curtly. “But I follow al’Thor’s orders. So, technically…he’s responsible.” He smirked. “And by the way, thank you for your precious help. I’m certainly glad I brought you along, Ghraem.”

“I don’t like your tone. What did I do this time?”

“Nothing,” Taim hissed, his poor excuse for a smile vanishing. “You did _nothing_. You said the men could use two leaders instead of one, since this was their first real battle. You promised that you wouldn’t be an inconvenience, Nate.” For once, Taim didn’t even seem to realise what he’d called Natael. He was too angry to care. “And what did you do? You asked Flinn, one of our best channelers, to shield you until we reached al’Thor, thus dangerously dividing his attention.” Natael paled. He’d ordered the old man not to say anything to Taim. He had to learn not to trust the bloody Asha’man with anything potentially important. “Then you watched as _I_ organised our men and told them what to weave and where. And _then_ ”, he went on, his jaw clenched so tightly that it must hurt, “you vomited in front of the freshly cowed Aes Sedai.”

Taim raised his hands before Natael had a chance to defend himself. It was hardly his fault if his mortal stomach couldn’t handle all the blood and human particles flying around! “You assured me that I could rely on you. That having you by my side would be a benefit, not a major hindrance. You are _useless_ , Natael.” For some unfathomable reason, the sudden change to his full name made Natael uncomfortable. “You are a burden to me. Light, you will probably be the death of me. I have survived for so long…” He paused just long enough to slump in a foldable, rickety chair. “I have survived because it was me, alone, against the world. I was a fool to ally myself with you. But it’s too late now, isn’t it?” he said with a sour grimace. “You know everything, and even though I can’t fully trust you as an ally, I certainly don't want you as an enemy. Whatever I do, I’m doomed. The only solution, at this point, would be to kill you.”

Natael rolled his eyes. It’d been a while since Taim had last threatened to murder him. “Al’Thor will know it was you, if anything happens to me.” The boy wasn’t _that_ dense. Surely.

“Perhaps he will,” Taim conceded. “But will he care?”

Silence fell heavily. Natael seized _saidin_ , but Taim was staring blankly at the ground. He didn’t react.

“Taim…” Natael said hesitantly. “I’m not a commander. I’m an administrator. One of the best, according to the Great Lord Himself. I thought I could be useful today but… The men, they don’t listen to me. Flinn protected me out of sheer pity, I think, not because I asked. And when I told him not to mention it to you… Well.” He took a seat on the other chair. “I…I suppose you were right. I should have stayed behind. If anything had happened to the men because of me…” He was sharing too much. A simple apology would do. Now Taim would name him a coward and a weakling again, and perhaps rightly so. “I’m sorry,” he finished lamely. He let go of _saidin_. Taim’s expression didn’t change, and he said nothing to acknowledge it.

“No matter how hard I try, I cannot puzzle you out,” Taim murmured. “One moment you’re frustratingly self-centred and callow, and the next you recognise all of your failings and… _apologise_. I didn’t even know you could do that.” He didn’t sound sarcastic. If anything, he was genuinely confused. “Has the madness taken control of your brain, Nate? Because you are frightfully incoherent, sometimes.”

Taim was obviously trying to make peace, to forgive him without actually having to say it, but Natael couldn’t help but notice the irony in his statement. “ _I’m_ incoherent?” he repeated. “Taim, a moment ago you were muttering to yourself and contemplating, not for the first time, the idea of murdering me. Now you’re… I don’t even know what you’re doing. You’re not making any sense.”

“I don’t have to make sense,” Taim said haughtily.

Natael stared at him. That was a reassuring statement. “Look, I know what we’re going to do. I am going to admit that my participation today was a total fiasco. You’re going to agree and let it go. I made the mistake of believing I could be a warrior. You made the mistake of believing in me. We both made mistakes. There’s no point in blaming anyone. Let’s just learn from this and move on, shall we? From now on, you will be the sole commander of our army, and I will be in charge of the Black Tower’s administration. We’ll both handle training, because there simply are too many men to train for you to do this alone, even with the assistance of the trustworthy Asha’man. But no more fighting for me.”

“’No more?’” Taim sneered. “Nate, the only thing you fought today was your nausea, and you lost that one battle.”

“What part of ‘ _let it go_ ’ do you not understand?” Natael huffed. “I was _agreeing_ with you, for pity’s sake! Why do you have to be so mean?”

Taim blinked. “Mean? _I’m_ mean? Nate, you were one of the Chosen. You used to maim your competition out of spite. You threw your own mother to the Fades!”

Ugh. Not this again. “If you’d known her, I doubt that you’d have objected,” he muttered. “Can we quit bickering for one second? I’m tired. Can we just…sleep?”

Taim shrugged. “You can sleep. I can’t.”

“Why? There’s nothing else to do, Taim. Al’Thor said we’d make plans in the morning. Our men are safe. You should get some rest.”

“I physically can’t,” Taim explained. “I’m too…tense to sleep right now.”

“Why are you tense? The battle is over. We were victorious. We didn’t even lose anyone.”

Taim’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “I think it’s mostly because of you. You unnerve me. You are incredibly vexing…” His fists clenched in his lap. “I can’t stand being near you for too long. It makes my skin crawl.” He stood up abruptly. “I’m going to take a walk, try to release some of the tension. But please, you get some rest,” he added with a cruel smile. “I know you had a very testing day.” Without another word, he left.

A minute too late, a series of witty come-backs came to Natael. Every day spent in Taim’s company was testing. Every single bloody minute was testing. And the things he said sometimes… _You unnerve me. It makes my skin crawl. Incredibly vexing. Nate._

By the blood falls! Didn’t the man realise that _he_ was the vexing one? Rarely a moment went by that Taim didn’t intrude on his thoughts, whether he was in the vicinity or not. Some nights, Natael lay in bed, wondering what new torments Taim would create for him the next day. More often than not, he even dreamed of the Saldaean.

They were always arguing, even in Natael’s nightmares. The bloody man never relented.

Maybe he ought to get some sleep, with insincere apologies to those who couldn’t. He stood and took the few steps that separated him from his cot – it was a simple pile of blankets, really, but it was all there was. He hadn’t seriously expected to sleep, not after Taim’s unpleasant words, but he passed out the moment his head touched the makeshift pillow.

He dreamed of Taim.

* * *

He startled awake some time later, drenched in sweat, his heart pounding in his chest. He felt a surge of nausea. Sitting up, he gasped several times before he could even his breathing. The nausea slowly retreated, living Natael light-headed. He should have eaten something before going to bed.

With another start, he realised that Taim was lying on the other cot. His body was utterly immobile, arms crossed over his muscular chest like a corpse, his face devoid of emotion, but not quite as peaceful-looking as a resting person should be. He was strangely pale. Gingerly, Natael reached out to take his pulse.

His heart was still beating.

Natael wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing.

“What in the Pit of Doom do you think you’re doing?” Taim growled, slapping Natael’s hand away.

“Nothing!” he exclaimed. “I…um, there was a mosquito.”

Taim turned his dark eyes on him. “A what?”

“You know, those blood-sucking little insects.” Surely they still existed in the present Age, unlike the unfortunate alligators.

“You mean a biteme?”

“If that’s what you louts call them,” Natael said with a shrug. “Anyway. I was just trying to help. I figured that, after everything that happened yesterday, you could do without an itchy mark when you woke up.”

Taim was silent for a moment. “It’s not morning yet,” he said eventually. “You only slept about an hour, and you were tossing and turning the whole time, even muttering occasionally. It certainly didn’t help me sleep.”

“Weren’t you asleep just now?”

“No. I was waiting for you to stop wrestling with yourself,” he replied acidly.

It couldn’t have been that bad. Taim was exaggerating again. Natael couldn’t even remember what he’d been dreaming ab-

Taim’s eyes were still fixed on him, and somehow bits and pieces of his nightmare drifted back to the surface of consciousness.

Yes, he’d been dreaming about Taim again, but…

His cheeks heated up.

It had started out as a nightmare. Scenes of devastation on the battlefield. People exploding. Blood. Screaming. And in the midst of it all, Taim, standing upright, arms crossed behind his back, his long coat floating in the harsh wind. No weave seemed to touch him. When he caught sight of Natael, cowering behind a boulder, he held up his hand, inviting him into safety. Natael joined him.

And then the dream had changed.

Darkness within! He quickly rolled over in his cot to avoid Taim’s intense scrutiny. No, no, no. This was just wrong. He’d had dreams of Atal that involved them both being naked… Sometimes Narishma was there, too…

But _Taim_?

What was wrong with him? Perhaps Taim was right. The madness… It had to be. He was going mad.

“Do you have a fever?” Taim asked. He tried to sound nonchalant, but there was a hint of concern in his tone. At least Natael thought there was. He couldn’t be sure of anything anymore. “You’re all sweaty, Nate. Do you require Healing? I can have someone fetch Damer for you.”

“No!” Natael winced. Too defensive. “Ahem. I mean, I’m fine. I just, um, I had a…nightmare. The battle, you know. Apparently, I’m a coward even in my dreams,” he added bitterly.

Taim didn’t reply, so Natael risked a peek over his shoulder. Taim was still studying him, frowning deeply. “I said you were useless on a battlefield, Nate. I didn’t say that you were a coward. It was brave of you to come here, knowing that there was very little you could do. Knowing that you would be hard-pressed to defend yourself. Honestly, I don’t understand why you insisted on coming. I wouldn’t have thought any less of you. You don’t have anything to prove. I know your worth. You are a capable manager. The Black Tower wouldn’t be what it is without you. I couldn’t do it without you.”

Was that…praise? Why was Taim complimenting him all of a sudden, in the middle of the night, after threatening to kill him for the umpteenth time?

Was he still dreaming? Oh, Great Lord, was Taim naked under the covers?

Natael stubbornly turned his back to Taim and closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep or wake up or make Taim disappear.

What was happening? Talk about being incoherent. Had the madness taken Taim, too? Were they both insane? Was this all a dream that their diseased minds had conjured? For all he knew, Natael was locked up in an asylum and hallucinating it all.

For all he knew, he had never truly awakened from his millennial slumber in Shayol Ghul and the Great Lord was messing with him.

For all he knew, he was dead, and this was the afterlife, for the likes of him. An endless, bizarre nightmare.

“I can’t do this without you,” Taim repeated quietly, shattering Natael’s train of thoughts. He made no reply. “Nate? Are you still awake?” Silence answered him. “I wish you would…” He sighed. “I wish you wouldn’t be so…” Natael couldn’t make out the string of muttered curses that followed. “I’ve never met anyone who made me feel half as frustrated as you do. Most of the time, you make me want to bang my head against a wall until it bursts open. And then you just… You say these things… And you sound so bloody _human_ …” There was a rustling behind Natael. “I don’t know what to make of you. Do you hate me? Do you intentionally drive me crazy, or is it just who you are? Why do you look at me with such worry in your eyes? I’m not mad yet, you know.” Never mind the fact that he believed Natael to be asleep and was giving a very long monologue to inexistent mosquitoes. “I know I _sound_ mad, sometimes. Don’t think I don’t know it.” Ah. “But it’s not the taint. It’s you. You’re so… You mess with my head. With my emotions. When you’re near me, I don’t know how I feel. You’re so unpredictable, Nate. I just don’t know how to behave around you, and _that_ is making me crazy. Because I like to be in control of my emotions and you make that all but impossible.”

Should he say something? Let him know that he was awake?

“I know you’re awake, Nate. Natael.” Taim chuckled dryly. “I don’t know why I bother to correct myself. I know it annoys you when I call you that, so why should I stop? Light knows you seize every opportunity to annoy _me_.”

“It doesn’t matter if you call me Nate or Natael or even Jasin,” he finally said. “It’s not my name.”

“I know. Joar. That’s your name.”

Natael shuddered. It had been a long time since anyone had spoken that name out loud, and coming from Taim… “I gave it up some millennia ago, Taim. My name is Asmodean.”

“Is that really the name you wish to be remembered by?” Taim asked softly. “’Musician’. As though your entire essence, your whole life could be summed up in one word. You are so much more than a musician, Nate. You have the _potential_ to be so much more, if only you’d allow it. If you didn’t constantly hold yourself back, if you didn’t believe, deep down, that you don’t deserve anything more than what you have.”

_Yes,_ Natael thought. _This is most certainly a dream. Taim would never say that._

No one would ever say that. To even think something like that, a person would have to care deeply about Natael, and such a person did not exist. No one had ever truly cared about him. Not his mother. Not his peers. None of his lovers. He’d never even had a real friend.

_Elan. Elan cared._

_Elan_ pretended _to care, you fool. He was manipulating you. He destroyed you._

_Don’t think about Elan_ , his brain screamed at him. _You swore not to. Never again. Too painful._

“Nate?” Taim said. His voice cracked a little. Light, he sounded so vulnerable.

Light? Oh, well. Why not.

“Say something,” Taim murmured. “I’ll call you whatever you prefer, alright? Um, well, obviously I can’t call you Asmodean where everyone can hear, but…” He trailed off. “You’re asleep, aren’t you? Peace, am I talking to myself again? This is exactly what I meant. You make me crazy.” More rustling in the blankets. “How am I supposed to sleep?” he grumbled. “I just annihilated thousands of men and women, but is that keeping me awake? No! The mighty flaming Ghraem is keeping me awake. And I’m _still_ talking to myself, Creator help me.”

“I’m awake,” Natael said, then immediately cursed himself for speaking up. Nothing that followed was likely to be anything but awkward. “I…look, I’m sorry that you can’t sleep, but what can I do about it?”

“Sing a lullaby,” Taim said.

Natael laughed, and the sound, much like the strange request, took him by surprise. He had not expected a jest, after everything Taim had just said.

“I was being serious,” Taim said stiffly. “You see? This is exactly what I’m talking about! Always you mock me, even when I come to you with the best intentions. And then you’ll have the gall to say that _I’m_ the mean one.”

Natael hesitated. Sometimes, it was difficult to tell when Taim was being serious and when he was being sarcastic. Slowly, he turned around in his cot to face Taim. “You…want me to lull you to sleep with a song?”

“Forget about it,” Taim snapped. “Just shut up and sleep. I’ll just lie here until dawn.”

A lullaby. Did Natael even know one? Certainly none of this Age. As al’Thor’s Court Bard, that was not the sort of request he received. Among the Aiel, it had been the _opposite_ of the requests he received. Something tickled the back of his mind.

It was in the Old Tongue, of course. Something about a spring of clear water and a nightingale chirping on a branch…

He began to sing.


	16. Perish the thought!

_How did I get here?_

_The young Dragon flees bravely_

_Inconceivable_

“ _Wake up, Nate._ ”

“ _Nate, I can’t feel my arm._ ”

“ _Come on, al’Thor will be here any minute.”_

 _“WAKE UP YOU FLAMING SON OF A GOAT’S DROPPINGS!_ ”

Natael’s eyes flew open. Taim was glaring at him. His hair was uncharacteristically dishevelled. “Uh?” Son of a goat’s droppings? That was new.

“You bloody oaf! I don’t know what happened last night, but my arm is, somehow, _under_ you. Can you _please_ move your skinny arse?” Natael quickly lifted himself up and Taim groaned as blood was once more allowed to flow in his limb. He massaged it for a few seconds. “How did you…? Why are we…? I fell asleep on my cot. So why are you…?”

Natael shook his head mutely. He had no idea. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he’d slept like the dead. And yet, somehow, he’d ended up lying a few inches from Taim’s cot, his own abandoned behind him.

At least neither of them was naked. Natael would have been incredibly disappointed if anything had happened and he couldn’t remember any of it. “What time is it?” he asked groggily. His mouth felt furry. He needed wine. A lot of it.

“We’re well into the morning,” Taim said as he stood, stretching his back. Natael couldn’t help but admire the view. “We’re lucky al’Thor didn’t decide to pay us a visit inside the tent without warning.” He sounded shaken, as though the possibility of the farm boy finding him in bed with Natael was his worst nightmare come true. Al’Thor had found Natael in bed with various people in the past; he doubted that the boy would even blink.

“So what?” Natael said lazily. “He has three different lovers. He’s hardly one to judge.”

Taim’s neck swivelled so fast that Natael was afraid it would get a whiplash. “What does that have to do with anything? We’re not lovers! I didn’t… You’re the one who… I fell asleep on _my_ cot, and I woke up there!” he huffed. “You’re the one who moved closer to me. I never said you could. I never… I don’t think I ever implied… What I said yesterday, it wasn’t an invitation to…” A vein on his forehead seemed about to pop. His face, usually so carefully guarded, was a dark shade of crimson.

Natael observed the scene with mounting mirth. His dream last night had been disturbing, sure – though not necessarily in a bad way – but Taim’s reaction was priceless. “It must be because of my singing,” he said slyly. “It always arouses women. I don’t see why men should be any different.”

“You-!”

“Taim!” a voice called from outside. Al’Thor. The lad always had the worst timing. “Are you up yet?” He sounded…awkward. “I, um, came by earlier, but you were, um…”

Natael couldn’t help it: he started laughing. The crestfallen look on Taim’s face, al’Thor’s obvious mortification… It was just too much. He laughed until his sides hurt.

“Natael? Is that you?” al’Thor demanded. “Is Taim with you? I need a word before we can all pack up and return to our respective lives.”

“Yes, my Lord Dragon, it is I,” he wheezed. He was having trouble catching his breath. It didn’t help that Taim was glowering at him as if he hoped his gaze could balefire Natael. “The M’Hael is, um… He will be with you in a minute.”

There was no reply. Natael assumed that the boy had run away.

“You think this is funny?” Taim hissed at him.

“I think it’s hilarious. You should see your face!”

“You’re… Light help me, I don’t know what came over me last night. Forget everything I said. You’re impossible.” He hastily combed his hair and exited the tent without another look at Natael.

Was Taim attracted to him? Judging by his reaction, he certainly felt _something_. Otherwise he would have casually laughed it off, instead of being defensive and offended by the very idea. Natael had never really considered Taim like that, not before his very suggestive dream the previous night. Of course he’d noticed that Taim was handsome, with a powerful body, strong hands, great hair… A good fashion sense, too. But…well, the nature of their relationship – strictly professional until then, with a healthy dose of rivalry – had rather prohibited that sort of consideration. Taim himself had told Natael that bedding the students was unethical.

Taim, however, was not a student.

Was that even the real reason, though? Had Taim been all worked up because Atal was a student…or because he was a man?

After all, this was not the so-called Age of Legends. In the good old days, no one batted an eye if a woman chose to marry another woman, or if a man chose to adopt children with another man. These things had been quite common. In this Age, however, Natael was not certain how it was considered.

He knew for a fact that Atal had found someone else to bed after Natael had rejected him. He’d seen them stealing kisses when they thought no one was watching – although he suspected that Atal, at least, was perfectly aware that Natael was watching. If he was hoping to make him jealous, however, he was sorely mistaken. Natael didn’t have a jealous bone in his body, and he was over Atal in any case. The boy had just been a distraction, something to pass the time. He usually didn’t care enough about his lovers to be jealous of the other people they dated.

But now that he thought about it, he hadn’t seen any other of the non-married men fool around openly with other men – which was, plainly spoken, unlikely. There were women at the Black Tower, besides the wives or sweethearts of the students, but not many. Most of them were the daughters or sisters of their recruits and had been hired as servants or farmhands.

If you put several hundred men in an enclosed environment with only a couple of available gals to distract them, you could be sure that, at some point or other, they would begin to consider other options. Like each other.

But again, this was a completely different Age. Was bedding another man considered…wrong, somehow? At the palace, when he was still following al’Thor like a lost puppy, Natael had bedded men and women alike, and al’Thor hadn’t seemed to mind. At least he’d never said anything. The servants, though…they’d given him odd looks. And the men he’d bedded had been reluctant to display any form of intimacy where anyone could see.

He’d never seen a woman openly show interest for another woman, except in the Aiel Waste. But the Aiel were different. Natael couldn’t base his knowledge of how things worked in this Age solely by observing the Aiel. To his knowledge, theirs was the only civilisation that allowed a man to marry more than one woman – something that wasn’t done even in the Age of Legends. Were the women allowed to take more than one husband, though? He’d never thought to ask. It would only be fair but, with the Aiel, taking wild guesses was usually a grievous mistake.

In any case, this possible stigma of same-gender relationships would certainly explain Taim’s reaction. Natael would have to send out feelers and learn more about how the uncouth peasants of this Age considered these matters.

But to complete his internal monologue, there was another thing that might explain why Taim had forbidden him to bed the students: Taim was jealous.

It seemed a bit far-fetched, especially considering that this had happened at the very beginning of their forced co-leading of what was still called “the farm”. Back then, Taim would have as soon killed Natael as compliment him on his administrative skills.

Then again, Taim had threatened to kill him no later than the previous day.

And the man claimed that Natael was the impossible one.

He wished he could remember the night in better details. Taim had requested a song – a lullaby, of all things – and Natael had complied. It was a rather sad ballad, but it was soothing. He hadn’t composed it himself, of course. His music was meant for an adult audience, one who could fully appreciate his talent. Taim must have fallen asleep at some point, and Natael soon afterwards. When had he moved closer to Taim? Why? Had it been a conscious decision, or had he been…sleepwalking, so to speak?

On the other hand, Taim could complain all he wanted about Natael moving closer, but his arm had ended up under Natael’s back one way or another. There was a part of responsibility on both sides.

Not that Natael was looking to blame Taim. He didn’t mind. He didn’t understand why Taim was making such a fuss about it. What if al’Thor had seen them? Why did it matter? He had nothing to gain by making a public announcement. The lad needed them to lead the Black Tower, so he would gain nothing by ruining their reputation. Provided that this was even a possibility. Honestly, they had committed no crime. He was 99% certain that nothing at all had happened.

By the time Natael finally decided to abandon his cot, wash up and don some fresh clothes – cornflower blue was today’s colour – Taim returned to the command tent. He didn’t look happy, but Natael sensed that it was for a reason that had nothing to do with him, for once. “Al’Thor claims that he needs to borrow some of our men.”

“Well? Why is that a problem? We’ll just give him the untrustworthy Asha’man, and good riddance.”

“We can’t do that,” Taim snapped. “What if the Forsaken give them orders while they’re away? We’ll have no way of controlling them.”

“That’s…true even at the Black Tower,” Natael said slowly. “For all we know, Demandred visits Gedwyn or Rochaid or any of the other pseudo Dreadlords every day. Or Aginor secretly controls them.” He wrinkled his nose at the name. In truth, he would be relieved to see the back of “Dashiva”.

“But if the Forsaken commanded them to kill al’Thor,” Taim said, his patience apparently wearing thin, “we’d be able to control their whereabouts, if they were at the Tower. If they leave Dumai’s Wells with the sheepherder without someone to keep an eye on them…”

“Then we send a few of our own men to watch over them. Like Flinn-”

“Damer is our best Healer,” Taim protested. “Our most trustworthy ally.”

“And the men respect him,” Natael said. “Even the evil Asha’man have some grudging respect for the codger. He’ll keep them in line. We could…I don’t know, maybe we could promote him, officially put him in charge of the Asha’man while they’re with al’Thor. And give a couple of the others secondary titles, so they don’t feel left out.”

Taim appeared to consider that. “I suppose… Yes, that’s probably our best shot. We’ll send Damer away, then, with all the…evil Asha’man, as you call them, and two other of our trustworthy batch. That should help cleanse our ranks of potential traitors and spies at the Tower.”

“See? You’re always so negative, but this is actually a boon that the gracious Lord Dragon has given us. Not only do we get rid of the bad seeds, but we gain spies of our own.”

“You want Damer and the others to spy on al’Thor?”

“Well, that was heavily implied. It makes sense, Taim. The boy is certain to keep them close.”

“Fine. I guess. Are you ready to leave? Everyone else is,” he added with a small smirk.

Natael frowned at him. “I don’t understand you. Yesterday you were practically baring your soul to me, and now you’re back to barely concealed mockery and insults? It is becoming tiresome, Taim.”

“Baring my soul?” he scoffed. “Don’t be silly. I was exhausted. I didn’t know what I was saying. Now, are you going to help me gather our supplies or-”

“Didn’t know what you were saying?” Natael repeated, incredulity tinging his voice. “That was quite a long rant for someone who was merely speaking out of exhaustion. Why do you say things like that, and then pretend that you didn’t? Why are you so intent on making me believe that you’re an utter arse in plain daylight, where everyone can see and hear you?”

Taim blinked. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he muttered. “Can we please not do this right now? We have important-”

“No. _This_ is important. The rest can wait. I want to settle this once and for all. How do you really feel about me, Taim?”

“Feel? I don’t _feel_ anything towards you,” Taim said. “Except perhaps a mild annoyance.”

“I won’t let you bait me into yet another senseless argument. I know that’s a lie. You know that’s a lie. Show me a modicum of respect and acknowledge that I am not as dumb as you seem to be implying.”

Taim remained silent and tried another technique: he ignored Natael entirely and began to assemble his belongings.

“You’re so bloody immature, sometimes. Worse than Mat bloody Cauthon.” No reaction. Then again, Taim wasn’t familiar with young Cauthon. “Alright, fine. I’ll go first. I used to despise you. I thought you were more soulless than a Gholam. I thought you were vain, condescending, haughty. Then you got drunk.” That got Taim’s attention. He stopped packing and turned toward Natael. “I _know_ that you faked memory loss the next day. And you just keep doing that, don’t you? Not getting drunk, but saying things… Contradictory things. One moment you praise me, the next you talk about murdering me… I can’t stand it anymore. Make up your mind, Taim. If you’re going to kill me, just do it. If not, let’s move past this awkward phase in our relationship once and for all.”

“We don’t _have_ a relationship,” Taim mumbled.

“Darkness within! I swear, I’ve never met anyone so bloody stubborn. And may I remind you, I know all of the Chosen. Of course we have a relationship. We were unwilling allies at first, united in our fear for our own lives and for the world itself. Now I’d like to think that we are, at the very least, _willing_ allies. We both agree that we need each other, and we acknowledge the fact that we could be stuck with someone much worse than the other.” Taim didn’t respond to that, but he didn’t make a wry comment, either. That was progress. “What happened last night… I don’t remember moving closer to you. You obviously don’t remember how your arm ended up where it was. Let’s leave it at that, shall we? We were both tired. It didn’t mean anything.”

Flashes of his dream resurfaced briefly, and he cleared his throat. “Nothing happened. I have to ask, though… Would that be such a terrible thing?”

Taim looked like he was having a stroke.

“I don’t mean for us. I mean in the eyes of…everyone else. Is this sort of relationship between two men considered a…crime?”

“It’s not a _crime_ ,” Taim said in a slightly strangled voice. “It’s just…not done. Or at least not talked about.”

“So it’s something to be ashamed of, that’s what you’re saying. It’s the kind of thing that can tarnish one’s reputation.”

“Immensely so. Though I suppose it depends where you hail from…” He shrugged. “But generally speaking, yes, it’s bad. The men who do that…they have to be careful, discreet. They can never hope to live like that openly. It’s simply not done,” he repeated. “Most often, they’re married men. They have a wife, they have children. To keep up appearances, you know.”

Natael understood what Taim meant, but as far as accepting it went… He didn’t. “’Uncouth’ doesn’t even begin to describe your society,” he murmured. “Why does it matter to people whom one wishes to bed, or marry, for that matter?” Taim gave him a blank look. “Oh, never mind.”

“Why are you even asking?” Taim said. “You’ve never seemed to care what people thought of you. Why does it matter now?”

It didn’t matter to Natael, but it clearly mattered to Taim. He’d been raised in this intolerant world. He didn’t know any better. There could never be anything between them – not because Taim was mad, not because he didn’t want it, but because he feared for his reputation.

That was why he’d put an end to Natael’s playtime with Atal. He couldn’t have a co-leader who was a lover of men, because he would be caught up in the scandal and be dirtied by it, by association.

“Do you like women, Taim?” Natael found himself asking.

“I… I’ve…” he struggled to form a sentence. “I’ve been with women before!” he finally exclaimed, outrage plain on his face.

“That’s not what I asked,” Natael noted dryly. “But this seems to answer my question all the same. You know what? I think that, between you and me, you are the real coward. You’re afraid of your own emotions. You want to be this fearless leader of men but, deep down, you’re afraid to be yourself. You let others dictate how you live your life.”

“That’s ridiculous! I declared myself the Dragon Reborn, Natael. I command an army of tainted male channelers. I intend to save the world from the Dark One _and_ al’Thor, if it comes to that. No one is telling me to do that. I _want_ to do it. I’m willing to risk my life for humanity, even though humanity has spent the better part of my existence spitting in my face. And you dare call me a coward? I’m one of the most selfless-”

“You’re not selfless,” Natael said. “You’re only doing this because you want to prove them all wrong. You want to prove that you were right all along, that you are in truth the saviour of the world. You want to make up for your past mistakes. You’re not doing it for them. You’re doing it for you.”

“To the Pit of Doom with you! You have no idea what you’re talking about, you bloody…Forsaken.” Oh, he must be quite cross indeed, if that was the best insult he could come up with. “I’m done with you for today, and I am forever done with this conversation. You will pack up the tent. I’ll talk to Damer and see to the rest of the men.” He stomped away without looking back.

Natael let out a long sigh. He could tell that his words had impacted Taim, and that the man would likely give them proper consideration once he calmed down. Deep down, he had to know that Natael was right. He was afraid to be himself, like most male channelers in this Age, but to a larger extent. He was a good man, but life kept trying to prove him wrong on that account. And the taint was certainly not helping. It had begun its work on Taim’s mind long ago.

Taim didn’t realise how lucky he was to have Natael at his side – _on_ his side. Without him, he would be nothing more than a puppet to the Chosen. They relied on Natael to keep an eye on Taim, to educate him and mentor him so that he could eventually become one of them – either to add to their depleted ranks or to replace Asmodean. Natael wouldn’t put it past the Chosen and the Great Lord to have him train Taim in order to have the Saldaean take over from him in the end.

The question was: would Taim follow the path they’d started on, or would he be tempted to accomplish greater things? Al’Thor would never give him that opportunity – the boy would never fully trust Taim, no more than he would trust Natael. That was a flaw of character that the Great Lord was certain to exploit.

The dire conclusions was that Natael ought to be careful around Taim. It wouldn’t do to antagonise him. If that meant that Natael had to stop pursuing a potential romance…so be it. The fate of the world was a tad more important than that, he supposed.

Ugh. Being a good person was more difficult than he’d anticipated. Why would anyone choose to be a hero, when being evil was so bloody _easy_?


	17. The dead rise and the lost return

_One does not simply_

_Walk into the Eelfinn’s realm_

_Why won’t you stay dead?_

“ _Wake up, Joar,_ ” a deep voice commanded.

Ugh. It couldn’t possibly be morning already. “Go away,” Natael grumbled, his voice muffled by his pillow. “It’s the middle of the night, burn you. Go bother Taim. I mean, M’Hael.”

The man who was attempting to rouse him exhaled sharply. “ _Joar_ ,” he insisted. “ _Up._ Now _, you lethargic buffoon._ ”

Lethargic _what_?! Who did he think he was, to talk to him like that? Natael was going to give him a good-

Joar. He’d called him Joar.

Oh, blood and ashes.

Natael opened one eye hesitantly, but the room was in complete darkness. He was right; it was the middle of the night. The perfect time for one of the Chosen to pay him a visit.

Who could it be, though? He would have recognised Demandred’s voice as well as Osan’gar’s. Al’Thor had sent word the previous day that Sammael had been killed by Mashadar, the so-called “evil” of Shadar Logoth. No body had been recovered, but the man once known as Tel Janin Aellinsar was presumed dead nonetheless. Therefore, technically, Barid Bel Medar and “Dashiva” were the only two remaining male Chosen, to Natael’s knowledge.

But.

However.

Dashiva was supposed to be dead. He claimed to have been given a new body by the Great Lord of the Dark, while retaining everything else that he was – the former Aginor, mad genius extraordinaire.

Was it not possible that another one of the recently deceased Chosen had made an impromptu come-back? Natael dearly hoped not, but he intended to find out.

He sat up in bed and opened both eyes, but they couldn’t seem to acclimate to the darkness. It was…unnatural. There was always a bit of light filtering through the curtains, no matter the time – the streets of the Black Tower were illuminated at night – but at that moment, Natael might as well be blind. “Who’s there?” he called. “Reveal yourself.”

The room suddenly exploded with light. Natael shielded his eyes, but too late; there was a ghostly afterimage printed on his eyelids. The silhouette of a man, tall and broad-shouldered. “By the blood falls! What is _wrong_ with you?” he complained. “Are you trying to blind me, you fool?”

“ _Careful with that sharp tongue of yours, Joar._ ”

Natael couldn’t place the voice, not at all. Finally, he was able to open his eyes again. It took a while for them to adjust to the painful glare of the unnatural light. He could barely distinguish his unwanted visitor, though he stood at the end of the bed. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“My name,” the man replied quietly, “is Moridin.”

 _Death_. Natael scoffed. What an incongruous, ludicrous name. “How do you know _my_ name?”

“I have always known it, Joar.”

Well, that was a cryptic answer. If this…Moridin’s intention was to get on Natael’s nerves, it was certainly working. “It’s bloody great to meet you, Master Death. What do you want? If you’re here to kill me, I wish you’d dispense with-”

“I have an assignment for you.”

This ominous statement was followed by silence. Natael glared at the form of the man, who was gradually becoming clearer. Moridin was pale and he had dark hair, but that was all Natael could say for now. “Who are you to give out assignments to the Chosen?”

“I am the Nae’blis,” came the shocking reply. “And you have not yet been returned to your former status, so do not presume to take that tone with me.”

Nae’blis? Impossible. Was this some sort of joke? The Great Lord would never promote a complete nobody as the leader of the Chosen. Could this man even channel? Natael couldn’t sense the ability in him. And yet the unnatural darkness, followed by that blinding light, must have been weaved by _saidin_.

Or _saidar_.

But this was a man. That much was obvious. Natael looked up at Moridin’s face, which was coming into focus. Piercing blue eyes, a strong jaw… Natael had never seen this man before in his life, of that he was quite certain. He never forgot a face, and this one was hardly ordinary.

“Do you have any idea what the Great Lord would do to you, if He knew that you were spreading this…preposterous lie?”

Moridin’s jaw tightened. “’tis no lie, Joar. I am the Nae’blis, and the Great Lord’s champion. As I was always meant to be.”

“Will you stop calling me that?” Natael grunted. “No one calls me that.” Except Ishamael.

But Ishamael was dead. Wasn’t he? Al’Thor had tried to kill him thrice, but surely the third time was the charm, as they said.

Ugh. If one of his former associates had to be resurrected, couldn’t it be anyone _but_ Ishamael?

He had to know. “Is that you, El-”

“You and I have a mission to accomplish,” Moridin interrupted him. “A mission of the highest importance.” Now that Natael had fully recovered his eyesight, he could distinguish the tiny black specks floating in the man’s eyes. What on earth were those? “Be ready to depart in half an hour. I will await you downstairs.”

He didn’t turn around and walk away. He _disappeared_. Right in front of Natael’s eyes. The air around him seemed to warp, and then he was gone. What in the Pit of Doom-?

The True Power. It was the only explanation. What madman would dare use it for such…mundane purposes? Had he not been warned about its dangers? It was to be used at last resort, not to avoid a flight of stairs.

Natael shook his head. That was Moridin’s problem, not his. He ought to get dressed, he supposed. If the man was telling the truth, if he was Nae’blis, unlikely as it was… Natael had better not disobey him.

* * *

“Took your sweet time,” Taim said when Natael walked into the library.

What was _he_ doing here?

“The more the merrier,” Moridin said flatly, without the hint of a smile. Light, but he was a dour fellow. “We will need all the help we can get.”

“Why?” Natael demanded. “Where are we going? What’s our assignment?”

“We’re going to rescue Lanfear, apparently,” Taim announced grimly.

Natael started to laugh, then realised that they both looked deadly serious. “You’re…jesting, surely.”

“I don’t think he is,” Taim muttered.

“I don’t remember being much of a jester,” Moridin said.

That was an odd thing to say. “But…it’s impossible. Mierin fell into the…doorframe thingy.” The portal had a proper name in the Old Tongue, but he couldn’t remember it. “Don’t you know where this leads? We can’t possibly-”

“We can, and we will.”

“But _why_?” Natael insisted. “Lanfear is fickle, to say the least. She’ll end up betraying us to get what she wants, and that is Lews…well, al’Thor. She’s obsessed with him. Why would we risk our lives to bring her back? How do we know she’s even alive?”

“Are you not still shielded?” Moridin asked.

“I… How do you…?” Natael turned to Taim. “You _told_ him?”

Taim looked like he was about to make a scathing retort, but Moridin spoke before he had the chance. “I already knew.”

“Well then… Why bother taking me along? I won’t be much help to you, not in…that place.”

Sindhol. Most likely the second most dangerous place accessible to man, Shayol Ghul being the first. Although that was debatable.

“On the contrary,” Moridin said. He extended his hand toward Natael, and an ukulele appeared. Natael hadn't seen one of those since the War of Power. “We need a Musician.”

* * *

They stood at the foot of an immense tower – the infamous Tower of Ghenjei.

“Taim, you will provide fire and light,” Moridin said, handing him a torch. He pointed to his long sword. “And I, iron, since you two nimrods don’t know which end of a sword is the pointy one.” It should have been a sarcastic remark, but Moridin made it sound like an inescapable fact.

“Before we step into that…thing that doesn’t have any door or window,” Taim said, “will either of you at least tell me what to expect? What are the Finn like? How do we-”

“Just do as you’re told, M’Hael,” the self-titled Nae’blis replied curtly.

“Moridin…” Natael began to say. “This is madness. We will never leave this place alive.” He hesitated. “Is that the point, perhaps? Do you intend to use Taim and myself as bait for the Finn while you rescue Mierin?”

“We will go in together, and leave together,” Moridin said matter-of-factly. “The point is to _gain_ one Chosen, not to lose more than we already have.”

Without further ado, Moridin produced a bronze dagger and drew the ancient symbol of the Finn at the base of the otherwise impenetrable metallic tower. This was the only way to create a portal. The Power wouldn’t work, not even the True Power. (At least Natael didn’t think so - he'd never used it himself, not even in their own world.)

An opening appeared. “Come now," Moridin said. "No time to waste."

* * *

They stood in a vast, star-shaped chamber – the Chamber of Bonds, Moridin called it – surrounded by two dozen Eelfinn, though Natael referred to them as Foxes, because he always mixed up the terms Aelfinn and Eelfinn. Behind Natael, two naked, motionless women were encased and suspended in what looked like mist. One of them was Lanfear.

The other was Moiraine Damodred.

Of course it was. If Lanfear had not perished, it made sense that Moiraine had also survived. She must have severed her bond to her stone-faced Warder to make him – and everyone else – believe that she was dead. To ensure that they would not foolishly risk their lives coming after her in a vain attempt at rescue.

Which was precisely what Moridin intended to do, but with Lanfear. Who didn’t deserve it in the slightest.

“Trespassers,” one of the Eelfinn intoned, “you have transgressed many of our rules. You bring iron and fire and an implement of music.”

The Foxes had not even tried to confiscate the forbidden objects. They’d simply brought the three of them here, never once saying a word. Moridin had followed without a protest, as though events were unfolding exactly as he had anticipated.

“The sentence for breaking these rules is death,” another Finn continued. “Lo, and behold what awaits you, reckless creatures.” It pointed toward Lanfear and Moiraine, who squirmed, eyes closed but mouths open in a wordless scream, as the Finn presumably drew from the source of their power and fed from it.

“Aren’t we supposed to bargain?” Natael asked uneasily. “Don’t we have three wishes?” Or was it three questions? No, that was the Snakes’ thing, he remembered.

“By bringing _this_ into our realm,” an Eelfinn replied, glowering at the ukulele, while others were shielding their alien eyes from the glare of the torch, “you have forfeited your chance to bargain for your wishes.”

Natael glanced at Moridin, who merely stood there, a picture of cool confidence, his sword sheathed, hands behind his back. Why wasn’t he talking? He was Nae’blis. Perhaps that counted for something, even in this unearthly place.

“We are emissaries of Ba’alzamon,” Taim said sharply. “You will release Lanfear into our care right this instant, or suffer the consequences.”

Natael slapped his left hand – the one that wasn’t holding the ukulele – on his forehead. The fool! Ba’alzamon was not the Great Lord. It was the name Ishamael had taken for himself. Ba’alzamon meant nothing to the Finn. “He means the Great Lord of the Dark,” he corrected quickly. After a moment of hesitation, he added, “Shai’tan.”

The Finn hissed collectively. “Your situation worsens with your every word, mortals. You have broken our most sacred rule by mentioning It-That-Must-Not-Be-Named.” Taim tried to speak, but the Eelfinn forestalled him. “Enough of this pointless palaver! Surrender the forbidden objects you presumed to bring into our realm. You will rue the day that you decided to-”

One second, Moridin was at Natael’s side; the next, he was lobbing off the Finn’s head with his iron sword, in one smooth gesture. The Fox’s fellows screeched at the offence.

“Kill them!” one growled. “Kill the intruders!”

“Joar,” Moridin said as he decapitated another foe. He sounded calm and collected, despite the commotion. “Now may be an opportune time to play the ukulele. Taim…”

“I’m on it.” He flung the torch with surprising accuracy. It knocked the head of the nearest Fox, whose bright red hair caught on fire. The others recoiled, snarling, while their peer ran across the chamber, howling as it tried to tamper the flames. Taim then weaved a large ball of light and held it at the centre of the chamber. The Foxes retreated.

Shaking out of his trance – he had no idea that the Power could be used in Sindhol; he couldn’t even feel the Source – Natael plucked a few strings. The closest Eelfinn stopped in its tracks, eyelids drooping. Natael played a hypnotising ballad, and several Finn dropped to the floor, unconscious or asleep. Moridin was leaping around the chamber, graceful as a dancer, heads flying in his path, until he was beside Lanfear’s ethereal cage. “Taim! Cover me.”

Taim abandoned the lightball and started throwing short bursts of fire at the Finn instead. They yelped and barked at him, but they were clearly afraid to come closer to him. The chamber soon reeked of burned hair and flesh. Any Fox that got too close to Natael fell to the music. He didn’t dare turn around to see what Moridin was up to. One moment of silence, and all the Finn would be onto him.

“We’re leaving,” Moridin announced soon afterward. He marched toward the exit, carrying Lanfear over one muscular shoulder as if she weighed nothing. “Keep up the music, Joar. Taim, keep them at bay.”

“That’s all well and good,” Natael yelled over the roaring Finn who ran after them, “but how exactly are we going to escape?”

Before anyone could answer him – if they intended to do so – they turned a corner and found themselves facing a dozen Aelfinn.

Playing the ukulele whilst running wasn’t exactly easy to begin with but, in his shock at seeing the Snakes, Natael dropped the instrument altogether.

“Peace!” Taim swore. “I can’t hold them off on my own, Nate! Focus, burn you! My Well is not endless.” A Well? Oh. That explained how he could channel, at least. But how had he gotten his hands on the artefact? These _ter’angreal_ were incredibly rare, in this Age. Had Moridin given it to him? That seemed unfair.

An overconfident Eelfinn took advantage of the distraction to leap on him, all fangs out. It crashed into Natael and he went down, hitting the ground hard enough to rattle his teeth. As he tried to sit up, the Fox bit into his thigh, causing a flash of excruciating pain and a wave of nausea. His attacker gnarled wildly, blood dripping from its maw as it grinned and moved closer to Natael’s throat.

This was it. This was how it ended for him. Eaten by Foxes. Or Snakes. Or both. What a distasteful death. Natael closed his eyes.

Light nearly seared his eyeballs off, his eyelids offering little protection. Blood and ashes, someone definitely wanted to blind him. “Fly, you fools!” Moridin bellowed. He had to be very close to Natael, because his ears rang. “More will come!”

Easier said than done. Natael couldn’t see a damn thing. He couldn’t even tell whether his eyes were open or closed. “Where are you?” he muttered, arms raised in front of him, trying to feel his way around.

Someone grabbed his right hand to pull him to his feet, and Natael yelped in pain. He must have sprained his wrist when he’d fallen, but his thigh was such a blaze of throbbing agony that he hadn’t noticed until then. Taim cursed loudly but took hold of Natael’s left arm instead. “I’ll guide you,” he said. “Try to keep up.”

How could Taim even see? Had the glaring light not affected him? Apparently not, because they were running at a good pace and didn’t hit any walls.

“Hurry!” Moridin enjoined them. His voice sounded far away now.

“Are we lost?” Natael asked Taim conversationally. “You do realise that this Moridin fellow is our only chance at getting out of this place, don’t you?”

Taim snorted. “’This Moridin fellow’? Are you being serious?”

“What do you mean?” Natael retorted. This was hardly the time or place for joking around. Taim had to know that.

Unexpectedly, Taim laughed. “That’s Ishamael, Nate. How have you not puzzled it out yet?”

His worst fear confirmed, Natael tripped over his own two feet and landed on the floor, _again_. What was worse, he reflexively used his right hand to cushion his fall. His already damaged wrist made a disgusting crunching sound. Natael felt dizzy with pain.

“Are you doing this on purpose?” Taim complained. “On your feet, you lummox.” Two strong hands clasped his shoulders.

Natael could hear the Finn getting closer, yipping and yapping. But he couldn’t move. “Ishamael?” he murmured, his voice as weak as his knees. “It can’t be. Al’Thor killed him. He killed him _thrice_.”

“Flay me, are we really discussing this now? We are in mortal danger, Nate. Get up. Now. I know you’re skinny, but I can’t carry your stubborn arse and run _and_ weave fire at the otherworldly monsters all at once.”

“Where did you get that Well?” Natael asked. It was utterly irrelevant, he knew that, but his mind was reeling with Taim’s shocking revelation and the pain in his wrist and thigh did not help.

“I will wear your skin as a loincloth, humans!” one of the Finn thundered.

Well. That was extravagantly unrefined, even by this Age’s standards. But it got Natael moving, at least. He stumbled to his feet, Taim supporting him with one arm and shooting fire balls with the other, judging by the sudden heat. Natael still couldn’t see anything.

“Where’s Ish-” He nearly choked on the name. “Where’s Moridin? Have we lost him?”

“I took the exact same turns he did,” Taim said through gritted teeth, “but somehow yes, we did lose him at some point.”

“This place is a maze. Humans can’t navigate it unaided.”

“Yes, thank you for your valuable input, I hadn’t noticed.”

“How can you be sarcastic at a time like this?” Natael snapped. “I’m blind and severely injured, we’re lost and being pursued by flesh-eating, primal beings, and you’re obviously tiring-”

“I’m tiring because I have to carry your sorry hide and do everything else besides,” Taim growled, his voice briefly sounding like that of a Fox. “Come on. We have to keep moving. More are coming.”

* * *

Hours. Possibly days. Or weeks? Natael’s legs were on fire. Not literally; Taim wasn’t _that_ clumsy. But he felt like he’d been running for longer than a person should be able to run. Then again, time was only a vague notion, in Sindhol. It might have been only a few seconds. The pulsating pain in his mangled thigh was not helping.

“Any sign of Moridin?” he asked again. Taim didn’t bother to reply, this time. He was panting with exertion, but his arm held on to Natael steadily.

“I don’t think I can keep up much longer,” Natael said grimly. “We should just off ourselves, you know. It’d be a more merciful death. I don’t suppose you’ve brought along some aconite vials?” It wasn’t aconite. They used another word for it, in this Age. Asping rot, was it? It didn’t matter. Taim would understand what he meant.

“Tell me again how I’m a coward and you’re not?” Taim said dryly.

“It was merely a suggestion. Pardon me if I don’t fancy ending up in the belly of a Fox with my flawless skin covering its…private parts.” He shuddered at the very thought.

“Where have you been?” a voice called from behind them. “I told you to keep up.”

Moridin. Natael was almost glad to hear him. Almost.

_It can’t be Ishamael._

_You know it is,_ a nagging voice replied. _You’ve known all along._

Blood and ashes, couldn’t he just stay dead? Flaming stubborn man.

“Do you have any idea where we are?” Taim demanded. “Is there even a way out?”

“Of course there is," Moridin replied impatiently. "I made sure to request one, during my previous visit. This way. And stay close, this time.”

Another year of running around passed. Natael could barely feel his legs at all. If not for Taim, who was now half-carrying him, he would have fallen ages ago, and stayed there on the ground, waiting to be devoured.

“There it is,” Moridin said at last. There was a rustling sound, then a loud _whack_ , then a hot breeze hit Natael’s face. “Well, come on. Do you wish to wait for the Finn to catch up to bid them goodbye and thank them for their hospitality?” Taim pulled Natael forward, and they stepped onto mushy ground. There was running water nearby – the river Arinelle.

Somehow, they’d made it out of Sindhol, and all of them alive, if not unhurt. His thigh was nearly vibrating with renewed rushes of agony. Was the bite of the Finn lethal to man? After everything, would Natael die of an infected wound, of all things? “Let me see what I can do about that nip,” Taim said softly. His voice, thick with concern, seemed to come from miles away. “Actually, you should sit down first, Nate. You look like you’re about to pass ou-”

He did pass out.

He awoke some time later, and was relieved to see the starry night sky above. He would never take seeing for granted again. A fire was crackling somewhere nearby. Natael turned his head and saw that Taim and Moridin were sitting on logs, enfolded in silence. Lanfear was still unconscious.

Natael sat up gingerly. His pant leg was torn and smeared with drying blood, but the skin underneath was unmarked. The pain in his thigh was gone, and his injured wrist had been mended. Taim must have Healed him – he doubted that this was Moridin’s doing. Natael stood on unsteadily legs and joined the other men by the fire – though why they’d bothered with one, he didn’t know. The scorching heat of the day always abated at night, but it was still hot enough to bake bread out here. Or perhaps Natael had a fever. Either way, he was thankful for his ability to ignore the heat as he sat beside Taim.

He was ravenously hungry, mostly because of the Healing, but noted with disappointment that no one had thought to cook something while he was unconscious. His stomach rumbled loudly in complaint, but neither of his companions heeded the noise. In fact, they practically ignored him.

“Well,” Natael said into the silence. “That’s done, then. Can we go back to the Tower now? Please don’t tell me we must take _her_ with us,” he added with a disdainful grimace in Lanfear’s direction.

“Mierin is not going anywhere,” Moridin said. He handed Natael the dagger he’d used to carve the Finn’s symbol at the base of the Tower of Ghenjei. “Here. I was waiting for you to wake up. It should be you.”

Natael looked at the blade with blank incomprehension. “Um…what am I supposed to do with this?”

“Kill her.”

Well, that was certainly more explicit. Natael frowned at Moridin. “Did we…did we go through all that trouble… Did we _risk our lives_ just so that we could _kill_ her?” He turned to Taim, who seemed transfixed by the flames. “Did you know about this? And how did you know that…that he’s…” He pointed to Moridin but didn’t finish that sentence.

“Who else could I be, Joar?” Moridin said reasonably. “Taim is not stupid. He connected the dots, barely three minutes after I shook him out of his drunken stupor.”

Taim pretended to ignore their conversation, but Natael thought his cheeks grew redder, though it might have been the fire. Had he been drinking again? Natael knew that the battle at Dumai’s Wells had been hard on him, but… No. That was hardly relevant to the matter at hand.

“So it’s really you… Ishamael.” _Elan_ , he almost called him, but that would have been a dire mistake. “You’re…alive.” He itched to ask how and, more importantly, _why_ , but he didn’t have to.

“I am the Great Lord’s champion.” Yes, he’d claimed that earlier. “He had to bring me back.” _Because without me, the battle is lost before it even begins_ , his eyes seem to say.

“Who else has returned?” Natael whispered.

“The ones who were still within His reach. Aginor. Balthamel.”

Ah, old Eval Ramman was back, as well. Good to know. The rest had been balefired, Natael thought. It made sense. They had been obliterated from the Pattern; not even the Great Lord could change that. Which was obviously a good thing – the situation was bad enough as it was.

“Why was I not made aware of this?” he demanded. “I am one of the…” He trailed off. No, he wasn’t one of the Chosen. Ishamael…Moridin had made that very clear, earlier. “This information is relevant to me, to _us_ , don’t you think?” he went on, indicating Taim and himself.

“Hardly,” Moridin said absently. “Now, if you’re done with your futile questions, take care of Mierin, will you?”

“Why me?” He’d rarely had to kill anyone with his bare hands. He didn’t like it, not in the least. He was not a cold-blooded killer, unlike some of his peers. He didn’t _enjoy_ killing. “Why the dagger?”

“The order comes from a higher authority, Joar. Do you question His will?” Moridin asked with a raised eyebrow.

“No, of course not,” Natael said hastily. “It’s just… Why bother to… We could have waited for her to die in there. The Finn would have drained her, eventually.”

“Joar.” His voice held a barely concealed warning. “Do you require an incentive, perhaps?” Before Natael could say no, Moridin seized the dagger with the True Power and threw it. It ended its course an inch from Taim’s throat. Natael reflexively reached out with his hand to snatch it, but lowered it when he realised that no harm had been done.

Not yet.

The M’Hael glanced at the blade curiously, but didn’t seem particularly worried. In fact, it made him chuckle. “I should think that Natael will be glad to be rid of me, Nae’blis. This will accomplish nothing.” The dagger moved forward and nicked his skin. A bead of blood appeared. Natael winced, but Taim made no sign that he’d even noticed. His unflinching gaze was on Moridin. “Do you truly believe that I fear death?” he said in a low voice.

“Do you truly believe that I don’t know _exactly_ what will make Joar do as he’s told?” Moridin countered.

“Enough, both of you,” Natael snapped. “Give me that.” He put his hand forward, and Moridin returned the dagger, hilt first, once again needlessly using the True Power.

Natael rose and took a few steps until he stood above Mierin. She looked oddly vulnerable – not a word he would normally associate with her. She had lost quite a bit of weight and she was paler than ever. Was he really going to bury this blade in her chest while she was unconscious? It seemed wrong, despite the fact that she’d done much worse to him. And to others, certainly, though he didn’t much care about that.

Why was killing a woman so much more difficult than killing a man? Mierin was a crazy, malevolent old hag. She _deserved_ to die. Natael kneeled at her side, dagger in hand. What if he missed her heart? What if she woke up?

“Joar!” Moridin barked, startling him. “Today, please. Don’t you want your full strength back? I thought this would please you, after everything she’s done.”

The shield! It would dissolve upon her death. Natael had become so used to it, he hadn’t even…

Without another moment of hesitation, he raised his hand and plunged the bronze blade deep into Lanfear’s black heart. She didn’t open her eyes. She didn’t cry out. She simply stopped breathing. Her body went limp.

Something inside Natael snapped. He seized _saidin_ , and the power that coursed through him made him feel more alive than ever.

His relief was short-lived, however. Killing Lanfear may have removed her shield, but the taint remained, and it was as foul as ever. He released the Source with a grimace of distaste.

Moridin stood and made a complicated hand gesture in the corpse’s direction. The earth underneath briefly opened up and swallowed it. “You may now return to your affairs at the Tower. I will be in touch.” He vanished, using the True Source. It would drive him mad before long, just as surely as the taint would dispossess Natael of his senses, eventually.

Natael turned to Taim as soon as Moridin was gone. “Are you alright?” he asked. “You’re bleeding. I’m still a terrible Healer, but at least now I’m also a powerful one. Let me have a look.” He discarded the bloody dagger and took the few steps that separated them.

Taim scowled, looking up at him. “Uh?” Had he forgotten about the blade at his neck already? He absent-mindedly touched the tiny prick. “Oh, that. Don’t bother. It’s just a flesh wound. I’ve done worse while shaving myself.”

Was Taim afraid of him, now that he’d recuperated his full strength? “It will only take a second,” Natael assured him. He sat down on the log and gently placed his hand against Taim’s neck. He seized _saidin_ again, but before he could weave the threads of Air, Water and Spirit that he needed to mend the flesh, Taim slapped his hand away and rose to his feet.

“I said I’m fine,” he said sharply. “Leave it alone, Natael.” _Natael?_ “And don’t touch me like that, it’s…”

“Improper?” Natael suggested dryly.

“It’s revolting,” Taim said. “Don’t do it again.”

 _Revolting_? That was harsh, even for Taim. What had gotten into him? “I was just trying to help,” he said defensively.

“Well, don’t. I didn’t ask you to.” He conscientiously dusted himself off. “I trust you’ll be able to Travel on your own, from now on. I’ll see you in the morning for our daily meeting.” There was a short pause. “Or perhaps I won’t,” he murmured.

Without another word, he disappeared through a gateway, leaving Natael alone with the freshly-buried body of Mierin Eronaile.


	18. Exercise is nothing more than a depressing reminder that one is not a god

_Yay, I’m strong again_

_Ugh, another False Dragon_

_Needlessly cruel_

Such _strength_. Such _Power_.

Natael revelled in it, but he was soon overwhelmed by the foulness of the taint. Still, it was a good thing. He'd had doubts, but he was definitely stronger than Taim. Not by much, admittedly, but enough, if worse came to worse - after all, he had centuries of experience on his side.

But Light, he hoped it wouldn't come to worse. Like it or not, he'd grown fond of the M'Hael, even if the other man seemed to have lost all respect for Natael - the little that Natael had managed to accumulate over the few months they'd spend together at the Black Tower.

He wasn't certain why that was. Was it because of the delicate conversation that took place the morning after the battle at Dumai's Wells? Was it because Natael had murdered Lanfear in cold blood whilst she was unconscious, or because Taim now felt threatened by Natael's strength in the Power?

Perhaps a combination of these things. Natael didn't know, and he didn't dare ask. Taim had often been aloof before, but he was even more distant now. He wasn't unpleasant, not exactly, but he did seem to be avoiding Natael.

He shouldn't be bothered by this. As long as they stayed the course, as long as Taim didn't betray him, it shouldn't matter how Taim treated him.

But he _was_ bothered. He was hurt, deeply so, by Taim's present attitude toward him. Natael didn't feel that he'd done anything to deserve it. It was Moridin - Elan, Ishamael, curse the man - that had forced him to participate in this ridiculous and apparently useless Lanfear business. Why go through all this trouble to rescue the sodding woman only to have her killed the moment she set foot outside, before she was even aware that she'd been rescued? It had to be some sort of power play on Moridin's part.

And yet, as frustrating as the whole business had been, the outcome was undeniably positive: Natael had regained his former strength, Lanfear was dead and buried, and they now knew that Ishamael had been returned to the world.

And, as a non-negligible bonus: Moridin had not insisted upon making Natael re-swear his allegiance to the Great Lord. Although there was no way of knowing if it was a mere oversight or a test to Natael's loyalty. He wouldn't put it past Ishamael, but it was a bit far-fetched. Moridin must have assumed that Demandred had already taken care of it.

In any case, in theory at least, Natael was free to do as he bloody wanted. Nobody could track him down if he decided to open a gateway to Shara or Seanchan or the flaming Land of Madmen and start afresh there, away from all the troubles of the world. Nobody would recognise him there. He could live an incognito life until the world ended - or until the Dragon Reborn saved it and it all blew over. The latter was less likely, but one could always hope.

He could leave this all behind. Leave Taim to deal with the Asha'man and the Forsaken (er, Chosen) and the bloody farm boy. Leave and never look back. Drink his fill of fine wine every day, create new masterpieces that would make it into the next Age (if there was one), sleep with whomever he wanted (but preferably someone who actually cared about him, for a change), laze around and be generally relaxed and content.

But did he really want to do that?

Every time he considered it, he imagined Taim's reaction, and it was limited to one word, perhaps shouted over and over in a fit of icy rage: _coward!_

That ugly word. Sometimes it felt like everyone he'd ever known had used it at one point or another to describe him, to his face or behind his back. Most of the time, it'd been used accurately. Natael was tired of giving them a reason (reasons) to use it.

What if he became a worthy...person? Not a warrior, certainly, and he was neither a general nor a mastermind, but he could be a brave...something. Anything. He was hardly useless, after all. His Asha'man pupils seemed to appreciate their lessons with him. With his full strength, he could show them things they'd never even thought possible. He could show _Taim_ these things, provided that the younger man agreed to be taught. Taim often seemed to believe that there was nothing Natael could teach him that he hadn't learned on his own, but he was sorely mistaken. He'd barely scratched the surface of what he could do with _saidin_ , especially considering his remarkable strength.

A brave teacher, then. A tutor, a mentor. Yes, that was something he could do, something he could _be_. Then, even if the world ended in a few weeks or months, or if Natael happened to die at the Last Battle or before, at least he'd be remembered for something other than the "maiming" of his ancient rivals, the (totally justified) “murder” of his dear old mother and his infamous cowardice.

Well, provided that there was anyone to remember anything, of course.

He ought to be careful about dying, though. He wouldn't want to end up in the body of a complete stranger, at the mercy of the Great Lord. Darkness within, what if He decided to give him a cleft chin, like Moridin? Or worse, an utterly unremarkable face, like that of the man now known as Corlan Dashiva? What if He made Natael _fat_? Ugh. The possibilities were as numerous as they were daunting.

Even dying wasn't a viable option anymore.

What a time to be alive.

* * *

“This is preposterous,” Natael repeated. “Logain Ablar was severed from the Source. You are a functioning male channeler. Ergo, you cannot be Logain Ablar.”

“For the hundredth time,” the lad said, exasperation seeping into his voice, “I was _Healed_. Ergo, I can be and I bloody well _am_ Logain Ablar.”

“How many times must I…?” Natael exhaled the remains of his patience. “Severing…I mean, gentling cannot be Healed.” He ought to be careful about the words he used. No one talked about severing in this Age. The men were gentled, the women stilled.

“Oh, for the love of the Light!” fake Ablar exclaimed. “How can I prove my identity to you? What will convince you?”

He was quite handsome when he was angry, Natael noted idly. Well, even when he wasn’t, though he could certainly use a bath. And a haircut. A change of clothes.

_Mm, he would look good in silk._

“Are you even listening to me?” the lad huffed. “Who are you, anyway? Are you in charge here?” His dubious expression made him look a lot less handsome to Natael, all of a sudden.

“I am the Ghraem. My name is-”

The Ablar impersonator laughed. It was a mirthless, depressing sound. It sounded like someone trying to remember how to laugh. “Ghraem? The All-Powerful? Really? How do you fit that massive ego of yours in such a scrawny body, I wonder?”

With great effort, Natael suppressed a biting retort. He wasn’t _scrawny_. He was slender. And nearly as tall as the other man, burn him. But it was irrelevant. The impersonator’s rudeness was due to exhaustion, that much was obvious. He must have been on the road for weeks; his clothes were dusty and threadbare, his face and hands darkened by a prolonged exposition to the sun, and there were shadows under his brown eyes. They were the eyes of a man who was old beyond his years, a man who had been battered and broken. That fitted Ablar’s story.

Why hadn’t he Travelled here? Perhaps he didn’t know how. Ablar probably wouldn’t know, if he’d been imprisoned at the White Tower for months then kidnapped by the rebel Aes Sedai.

And he was well-versed in the Old Tongue. But that didn’t prove anything. Natael knew very little of Logain Ablar, in truth. Perhaps he should wait for Taim to return…

No. He was as much in charge here as Taim was. He was perfectly capable of making his own decisions. “My name,” he said, “is Jasin Natael. And yes, I am co-leader of the Black Tower.” He stood up and started pacing. “Tell me again how this…Nynaeve woman supposedly Healed you.” The name sounded vaguely familiar, but Natael couldn’t place it.

“No matter how many times I recount it, I doubt you’ll ever believe me,” the man muttered.

Natael nodded. “You’re right, I won’t. Because it’s flaming _impossible_. For your next outrageous lie, do remember not to be too extravagant. Honestly, what sort of reaction did you expect? Everyone knows that gentling cannot be Healed.”

“’It’s only impossible until someone does it for the first time.’”

Interesting. Well-versed in the Old Tongue and obviously well-educated in general, if he could quote authors from the Age of Legends. He could be a nobleman, at least. That part may be true. “Where do you hail from?”

The impostor groaned. “Ghealdan,” he enunciated. “As I’ve said countless times before.”

It could be true, or not. Natael had never met anyone from that land; he didn’t know their accent. “How old are you?”

“What does it matter? Do you know _anything_ about me? About Logain Ablar, I mean?” he amended grimly.

“Well… I know he was a False Dragon from Ghealdan, the son of a nobleman, and that he was captured and gentled by the Red Ajah before al’Thor’s amnesty.” That was about the extent of his knowledge. Of course, Logain Ablar would have made an interesting ally to the Chosen, had he been able to channel, but he’d been severed before any of them had a chance to get their hands on him. It was probably only a matter of time before Ablar – the real one – died. All men who’d been gentled eventually did. As far as Natael knew, the man was already dead, his body rotting in an unmarked grave like that of Mierin Eronaile.

“Is there any chance that someone here might recognise you and vouch for you?” Natael asked.

The lad gestured helplessly. “How would I know? I was brought to you right away. I encountered only a couple of men – these…Dedicated of yours at the gate. Let me wander around the place for a while, and perhaps someone will know me.”

Natael snorted. “I don’t think so. You’re not going anywhere until I’ve made up my mind about-”

The door to his study banged open. Taim marched into the room as though it was his own. “Is it true?” He planted himself in front of the stranger before Natael could protest. “Are you him?”

“Of course he’s bloody not,” Natael said. “Don’t be a fool. Ablar was gentled.”

Taim and the man studied each other wordlessly for a long minute. Taim was tapping his chin thoughtfully. The impersonator sat entirely motionless, hands in his lap, but Natael could tell that, like a Warder, he could be on the move in a flash. Natael was glad that his sword had been confiscated; he looked like he knew how to use it.

“I will remove your shield,” Taim said eventually, matching his actions to his words as he released the other man. “You will seize the Source and hold as much of _saidin_ as you can.”

The man stood and moved a bit closer to Taim before complying. They were the same height, but “Ablar” was slightly broader. Natael sensed that he was nearly as powerful as himself, on equal footing with Taim, which did nothing for his peace of mind. “It is him,” Taim whispered. “It has to be. He’s stronger than Jahar.”

“It _can’t_ be him,” Natael insisted. Light, how many times must he repeat himself before it got into their thick skulls?

Taim rounded on him. “What reason could he possibly have for lying? He’d know that he wouldn’t be welcome here. It would make more sense for him to pretend to be anyone _but_ Logain Ablar.”

“Oh, am I not welcome, then?” the man said dryly. “I thought all male channelers were welcome here, in this safe haven.”

“You will be allowed to stay, if you so choose,” Taim said, “but keep in mind that Natael and myself are in charge here. Of course, we’ll raise you to the highest rank, but you will be an ordinary Asha’man, as far as I’m concerned. No special treatment.”

“Taim,” Natael interrupted them. “A word?” He indicated the door. Taim rolled his eyes but followed him out of the room. “When did we decide that he was Logain Ablar?”

“It has to be him,” Taim said. “He’s almost as strong as we are, Nate.”

_Ah, Nate is back._ Taim hadn’t called him that since they’d returned from their hazardous trip to Sindhol, a few days earlier. Natael almost smiled out of relief. Perhaps Taim didn’t hate him after all; perhaps he just needed time to adjust to the recent developments.

“So is Narishma,” Natael countered. “Gentling cannot be Healed, Taim. Even in the Age of Legends, it was impossible.”

“It was thought to be impossible,” Taim corrected him. “Obviously it’s not impossible anymore.”

“This is madness,” he snapped. “The man is clearly delusional, and I’m beginning to think that you are, as well.”

“And you are a stubborn old fool,” Taim retorted. “Things are changing. Ancient powers are returning. There are several _ta’veren_ out there, and the Dragon has been Reborn. Every day, we rediscover weaves thought to be long forgotten.”

“ _I_ have never forgotten them. I was there, back in the day, remember? And I’m telling you, this is not a rediscovery, because it’s _never been done_.”

Taim indulged him with his famous half-smile. That didn’t bode well; usually, it meant that his next argument was inarguable. “Had anyone ever severed the connection between one of the Forsaken and the Dark One, before al’Thor did it to you?”

That brought him up short, just as he’d feared. “Well…no, but-”

“Enough of this pointless chatter. I know it’s him, Nate. I can feel it in my bones. I’m right. You’re wrong.” His smile turned into a smirk. “Just another day at the Black Tower, in other words.” He walked toward the staircase. “See to it that he bathes and is given a uniform, then send him to my study. No need to shield him. I’ll set him straight right away, then I’ll test his abilities. In time, if he proves trustworthy, perhaps we'll recruit him.” Not as an Asha’man, Natael understood, but as an ally in their private, secret army.

Natael glared after Taim for a moment longer before going back inside his study. “Follow me,” he barked at Ablar. “You’re in dire need of a bath.”

He expected Ablar to be pleased, perhaps even smug, considering this sudden turn of events, but the former False Dragon merely nodded, his face grim. “I hope you have more…formal clothes for me to wear, other than these frilly garments of yours. I don’t look good in women’s clothing.”

Now that the newcomer’s identity had been established (sort of) and that he was officially about to become his subordinate, Natael deemed himself free to dispense a justified reprimand, but he reconsidered at the last moment. Instead he gave Ablar a disarming smile. “And how exactly do you know that?”

* * *

Natael was tempted to eavesdrop to know what was going on in Taim’s study, but the M’Hael had made it clear that he wanted to talk to Ablar alone. So be it. The former False Dragon was insufferable. Possibly more so than Taim, and that was saying something.

Natael occupied his day by mentoring a group of Dedicated and drinking wine, both at the same time. Later that afternoon, when most of his duties had been dealt with, he decided to take a break and visit the fencing area, where some of the recruits honed their sword-fighting skills. It was always a pleasant sight, what with Narishma being so fond of sword fighting, even in this heat. Unfortunately, Narishma was gone, guarding al’Thor.

Still, it wasn’t a complete disappointment. Ablar was there, facing Atal. They were both bare-chested.

This was going to be entertaining after all.

Natael sat on a boulder nearby and admired the view. They kept at it for a long time. Ablar was in splendid shape. Quite muscular. Nice long hair, now that it’d been washed. His borrowed trousers were a perfect fit, emphasising his well-turned calves.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Taim said, startling him out of his reverie. “You’re supposed to be in class with your Asha’man. How long have you been out here, day-dreaming about sweaty barbarians fighting with sticks?”

“I was merely…trying to learn a few, um, forms. For my own education. You never know when you might need to use a sword.”

Taim showed some teeth. It wasn’t his usual ghostly smile; it was a predatory, alarming leer. “A brilliant initiative, Ghraem,” he said loudly. Heads turned in their direction. “Why don’t you show us how it’s done? Surely you’ve had plenty of time to study the forms now.”

“A demonstration!” Atal shouted. Several men took up the call.

“Asha’man Ablar,” Taim went on. The moment he opened his mouth, everyone quietened. “Our all-powerful co-leader would like to practise. Will you be his opponent?” The Ghealdanin made a gesture between a nod and a shrug. “Please be gentle,” Taim went on. The use of that specific word made Ablar grimace. Natael was persuaded that Taim had used it on purpose. “He may be a bit rusty.”

As soon as he was done, the rest of the assembled men – more had come to investigate the sudden clamour – resumed their chanting. Natael glared a promise of pain and death at Taim, but he had no choice but to step forward into the fencing area. Atal helpfully threw him a sword. He _threw_ it. Natael fumbled awkwardly, and it landed at his feet. Thankfully, not _on_ them, but it was still quite embarrassing.

He would kill Taim for this. If Ablar didn’t accidentally kill him first, that was.

He’d hoped to hold his own for at least a few minutes. He had received formal training, after all, albeit briefly. And a long time ago.

Within seconds, though, he was resting on his back, head ringing. The crowd was cheering Ablar – no, _Logain_ , they were calling him.

He’d never been so humiliated in his life. He considered pretending to be dead, or at least unconscious, but Logain held out his hand to help him up. “Sorry about that,” he said. He sounded sincere. “I thought…well, I assumed you were going to defend yourself.”

Atal, who’d picked up Natael’s barely-used sword, roared with laughter, and was soon joined by others. Natael gritted his teeth. He’d _tried_ to defend himself, burn the man. Logain was like a bloody whirlwind.

And he’d already donned his shirt. Ugh. This day was getting worse and worse.

He looked over his shoulder, searching for Taim. The M’Hael stood some distance away from everyone else, arms folded over his chest. He was not laughing with the rest of them. He was not even smiling. In fact, he was glaring at Logain, for some reason. He stopped as soon as he caught sight of Natael looking at him. He did smirk then, but it seemed forced. He gestured toward Natael’s palace (where Natael was supposed to be teaching his group of Asha’man) then marched off toward his own abode.

Natael sighed heavily. Was he still expected to give lessons after this traumatic experience? “Are you alright? Do you require Healing, Ghraem?” Logain asked quietly. There was no trace of smugness or mockery in his soulful eyes, for which Natael was grateful.

He gave a shaky laugh. “No, I’m quite fine, thank you.” He turned to the men. “Back to your chores, everyone! Nothing to see here.” He departed rather hastily, their laughter following him.

* * *

Taim wasn’t the only one who could make a dramatic entrance. Natael kicked the door open and stomped in Taim’s study. “What in the Pit of Doom was _that_?”

The M’Hael glanced up from his papers, looking mildly intrigued. “Do come in,” he said wryly. “Pull up a seat.”

Natael starkly refused. “What were you thinking? Do you have any idea how this makes me look?”

“Like a lazy oaf who lies through his teeth. Which is what you are.”

That wasn’t the answer he’d expected. “What?” Ah, that automatic response to unforeseen words, so often used in this Age in the hope that one might come up with a clever quip while the other person repeated themselves. As usual, it didn’t work.

“You said you’d been learning some forms. I assumed you’d need to practice them. I was merely trying to help,” Taim explained innocently.

“Of course I was bloody lying about that!” Natael shouted. The time for witty banter was over. He was too angry to think clearly. “Did you have to punish me like this for telling a minuscule, ridiculously unimportant lie? So I was late for class. It wasn’t the end of the world, Taim. No one expects me to be on time, anyway.”

“I don’t know what you’re complaining about. I bet you got a very close look at Logain’s naked chest, after he knocked you down on your arse.” His lips spread a fraction, but it was hardly a smile. Rather a vindictive smirk. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Natael was so shocked that he forgot to be angry for a moment. “Taim… Did you do that because you were…jealous?”

Oh, he certainly didn’t like that. For a brief instant, his face contorted with rage. “Don’t be a fool,” he growled. “I did it to teach you a lesson about punctuality. I trust you will not disappoint again in that regard. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.” He appeared to dismiss Natael entirely, shuffling his papers with an air of importance.

Too stunned to speak, Natael did the reasonable thing, for once, and exited the study without another word.


	19. Use all your well-learned politesse or I'll lay your soul to waste

_Let’s enjoy Logain_

_Before we have to Turn him_

_Don’t provoke Barid_

Natael was staring out the window of his study, sipping tea (it was, sadly, too early for wine). Down below, Logain was demonstrating a protective ward to a captivated group of Dedicated.

He was an efficient teacher: patient, firm but fair, engaging. Everyone had become quite fond of him, and _fast_. He had a magnetic personality. Natael wouldn’t go as far as to say that he was jealous of the man, but he certainly wished he had Logain’s ability to make people like him, seemingly without effort.

Logain. The simple fact that everyone called him by his first name was revelatory. Only Taim insisted on calling him Ablar, or Asha’man Ablar whenever other people were around. Natael had tried to remain formal, as well, but had failed. Calling the former False Dragon anything but Logain felt forced and unnatural, just like calling Taim “Mazrim” felt…horrifyingly wrong.

A week after Logain’s arrival, Natael still wasn’t sure if he could be trusted. On the one hand, he was willing to help with the recruits and he was invested in the future of the Black Tower but, on the other hand, he was a bit aloof, especially toward Taim. He refused to tell them where the rebel Aes Sedai were stationed, what he’d learned while he was held captive there, or even how he’d escaped. Taim resented that and made it clear, and Natael had to admit that it was a strange decision on Logain’s part. Why was he so intent on protecting the Aes Sedai? Had he been sent to the Black Tower intentionally, planted here as a spy by the witches? Had he truly been Healed, or had the Aes Sedai never gentled him in the first place? Perhaps they’d been hoping to use him, after brainwashing him. Perhaps they’d been manipulating him all along and, as the rumour went, had set him up as a False Dragon. That was certainly the more rational explanation, in Natael’s opinion, though the rumours had it that the False Dragon gig was the Red Ajah’s doing, and there were no Red sisters among the rebels, that much was clear.

So many questions, so few answers. Logain wasn’t forthcoming with them, but he had no qualm questioning _them_. Why did Rand never visit? Had they warned him of Logain’s arrival, of his miraculous Healing? Who was Natael, and why had he been nominated co-leader of the Black Tower with Taim? Why did Rand trust either of them with such an essential mission? What were their credentials? Why did the recruits have to wear ridiculous, girly accessories to mark their rank? Logain had been frowning at Natael when he’d asked this, for some reason, as if he were responsible for this glaringly unfashionable mistake. Natael had hastily explained that this was the Dragon’s decision, which had only caused Logain’s frown to deepen. Well, they’d have to fill him in on Rand’s mental instability at some point; might as well lay the groundwork now.

Natael didn’t trust him (yet), but if anything Logain claimed was true, the man had every reason to be distrustful of them. Of anyone, really. He’d had it rough this past couple of years, poor thing.

Logain was now demonstrating how to adjust the size of a fireball. He stood tall, back straight, his long hair trailing behind him. He looked dashing in the Asha’man’s black uniform, especially now that he’d gained a few pounds. He practised his sword forms every day without fault, sometimes alone, sometimes with a partner. Natael almost wished he could wield a sword, just so he could admire him from a closer vantage point. Of course, he hadn’t dared approach the fencing area since Logain had defeated him with disconcerting ease the previous week.

He’d briefly considered requesting fencing lessons with Logain, but he knew that Taim would mock him for it. Mock him, or kill him out of jealousy? No, it couldn’t be jealousy. That was wishful thinking. Taim didn’t think of him that way, and never would. Taim didn’t care about him at all. He barely even talked to him, these days.

As was common nowadays, Natael’s rumination and otherwise peaceful morning were rudely interrupted. Not by a knock on the door, but by someone speaking from behind him.

“When were you going to tell me, Nessosin?”

Natael spilled most of his (thankfully lukewarm) tea all over himself. He jumped out of his chair, cursing, and turned around to find Demandred standing in the room, hands behind his back.

“I…what?” Ugh! He had to stop saying “what” all the bloody time. Demandred raised an eyebrow. “I mean, um, beg your pardon? What was I supposed to tell you?”

Before Demandred replied, a few possibilities sprang to mind: Ishamael’s resurrection, Lanfear’s death and the subsequent return of Natael’s full strength in the Power, Moridin’s claim that he was Nae’blis… Though why the latter should be Natael’s news to disclose, he didn’t know. Moridin must have made an announcement to the Chosen already – which might explain Demandred’s bitter disposition on this bright morning.

“Logain Ablar is here, and he’s been Healed. I had to hear this from one of my spies, Nessosin, though I distinctly remember ordering you to let me know if anything out of the ordinary happened at the Black Tower.”

Oh, that. Natael relaxed a fraction. “I didn’t think it was important, because I don’t entirely believe it,” he admitted. “That he’s been Healed, I mean. I’m quite convinced that he _is_ Logain Ablar, at least.” Two Soldiers and three Dedicated had recognised him, four of them men who’d followed Logain as a False Dragon. The last one had witnessed the procession in Caemlyn, where the Red Ajah had paraded Logain after his defeat.

Demandred shook his head. “He was severed from the Source, that was never in question. And now he can channel. Healing is the only possible explanation, no matter how improbable. It was confirmed by Aran’gar.”

Natael tilted his head. “Aran’gar?” But he didn’t need Demandred’s impatient clarification; he had already made the connection. The Great Lord and his ironic names. If Aginor was Osan’gar…

“Formerly known as Balthamel,” Demandred said. “She’s infiltrated the rebel Aes Sedai camp.”

_She?_ Natael opened his mouth but, gauging Demandred’s expression, thought better of it and changed what he was going to say. “Well, if she gave you the information, you don’t need my input.” Which made him wonder why the Chosen was here. To punish him for not beating Aran’gar to the news?

“The Healing is not the interesting part,” Demandred retorted. Natael disagreed – it was mind-blowing, if true – but didn’t say so. “After he escaped the rebel camp, Logain was lost to us for some time, we had no idea where he was. How long has he been here? A week?” Natael nodded slowly. “And I’m only finding out now? From a scullery maid?”

A scullery maid? _Shadow help me,_ _no one can be trusted_. But it made sense; when promised money in exchange for information, these lowly people rarely hesitated.

“I…” Mm, time to throw Taim under the cart. “Taim is the one who deals with our correspondence. I assumed he’d warned you already.”

“I do not _care_ which of you is in charge of what,” Demandred spat. “You should have contacted me the moment you ascertained Logain’s identity.”

It was funny, how even Demandred called him by his first name. Perhaps Logain simply sounded better then Ablar, perhaps it was easier to say. “Yes, I see that now,” Natael mumbled, head lowered, though it was too late to apologise. In truth, it had never crossed his mind to let Demandred know about it, nor even Moridin. Maybe he was unconsciously protecting Logain, or maybe he was just an idiot.

Or both.

“You will recruit him.”

Natael looked up at that, scowling faintly. “We already did.”

Demandred rolled his eyes. He was usually very careful not to display his emotions, but Natael had been told repeatedly that it was impossible to remain stoic around him. It was his superpower – he could annoy anyone. “You made him an Asha’man, but he must become an ally. A Dreadlord.”

Uh. Why was Taim never around when Demandred showed up out of the blue? He would know what to do, what to say, how to stall. Did Demandred time his visits so he wouldn’t cross paths with Taim?

Was he _afraid_ of Taim? The thought was rather amusing, but also hurtful – it meant that, even with his strength restored, old Barid Bel didn’t consider Natael a threat. Truth be told, even now, he didn’t feel like one. It would never occur to him to try anything against the Chosen. Battling Demandred one on one with the Power was suicide. Challenging him with a sword was suicide, even if you were considered a skilled duellist. He was also proficient in hand-to-hand combat.

It was preferable to avoid conflict with Demandred altogether.

As Natael struggled to come up with a response, Demandred went on. “If he won’t join us willingly, you will Turn him.”

Oh, not this again. If Demandred commanded them to Turn Logain – and, likely, everyone else – they would have no choice but to comply. If the Chosen realised that they were gathering a private, non-aligned army, they would be annihilated. They had to keep up appearances. They would have to Turn at least a few men, to satisfy Demandred. They had to delay this issue for as long as possible.

In the meantime, however… “We don’t have any women at our disposal,” Natael pointed out. “We need female channelers to Turn our men. And Myrddraal, of course.”

Demandred eyed him stonily for what felt like an hour, his body utterly immobile. Natael began to sweat, despite the milder temperature of these past few days. “You shall have the Myrddraal you require. Give it a month or two.” A month or two. That was better than nothing, he supposed. “But women are not necessary to the Turning process. If you cannot find any, you will use your men.”

Use male channelers to Turn other men? That was insane! It would take several sessions to Turn a single man, and it would be excruciating for the victim and horrible even for the persecutors. Not to mention that the victim might not survive. “It will take ten times as long to-”

“You will do as you are told,” Demandred snapped. “Regardless of the availability of female channelers, you will begin the Turning of the _entire_ Black Tower as soon as you have thirteen Myrddraal at your disposal. Logain, should he refuse to join the Shadow, will be your first target.” Natael’s sweaty back felt suddenly cold and he had to suppress a shiver. Demandred took a step forward. They were nearly the same height, but Demandred was much broader. “I suggest that you start looking for female candidates to bolster your ranks,” he said in a low voice. “Or work that witty charm of yours to Turn your men the old-fashioned way.”

Aw, Demandred thought he was witty and charming! Natael almost grinned, but quickly realised that Demandred was being sarcastic. Demandred, sarcastic? If that was not a sign that the world was ending, he didn’t know what was.

The old-fashioned way. That was easier said than done – convincing a person to turn to the Shadow of their own free will took time. Besides, they didn’t have a-

“We’ll need an Oath Rod,” Natael blurted out. “To swear them in, should they decide to join us willingly. I’m sure that some of them will.” With that artefact in their possession, they could _remove_ the Dreadlord Oath that Taim had sworn a few months ago. He wouldn’t be bound to the Shadow any longer.

Demandred was scowling at him; his arms were now crossed over his chest. His attire was that of a wealthy merchant, perhaps from the Borderlands, judging by the sturdy material. Natael doubted that Demandred had established himself up north, but the clothes fitted him well. Green had always been his colour, mainly because it matched his eyes.

“I will think about it,” Demandred said eventually, after nearly a minute of consideration. He was usually quicker in his decision-making. “In the meantime, continue to recruit all the channelers you can find, and train them. Raise as many as you can to the highest rank, Turn them, and prepare these Dreadlords for the Last Battle. The Black Tower’s army will play a crucial part in our plans.”

“As you command, Great Master, so it shall be done,” Natael replied, bowing his head in mock deference. He could be sarcastic, too.

Bad idea. His throat constricted. He couldn’t breathe. His hands flew to his neck reflexively; he could feel his eyes bulging.

Demandred took another step forward and grabbed the lapels of his coat, pulling Natael closer to him. His green eyes were ablaze with contempt, his teeth partly bared. “You may have recovered your full strength, Nessosin, and you may be under the protection of the Nae’blis,” he whispered, the last word sounding like a curse, “but you are still _you_ , and I am _me_. I am the superior man in every possible aspect. I’m sure I could play that ludicrous harp of yours better than you ever did, if I could be bothered.” Natael listened with mounting anger, but he was afraid that he would pass out soon. If not for Demandred’s strong grip on his coat, holding him upright, he would have slid to the floor. He tried to seize the Source and failed. He was too weak. “You have always been our weakest link,” Demandred went on, as if he’d read his mind. “I would kill you this instant if I knew I could get away with it in all impunity. I would kill you and replace you with Taim. Logain could fill in for Sammael. We don’t _need_ you, Nessosin. You’d do well to remember that. Your continued existence is a mere courtesy, as far as I’m concerned. You had better pray that Elan stays alive, this time, because as Nae’blis, I will not be as forgiving as he is. If you want a place in the new world, in _my_ world, I suggest that you improve your grovelling technique, you pathetic worm.”

With that last compliment, he was gone, and Natael was on the floor, gasping for breath as the smothering weave was finally removed. He coughed and hacked until he was able to inhale and exhale normally again, without having to think about it. And yet he stayed where he was, lying in a ball on the floor.

Fill in for Sammael? The rumours were true, then. Al’Thor had not bothered to notify them, but their contacts on the field had sent confused messages regarding Sammael’s demise. No body had been recovered, but Demandred’s words confirmed it: Tel Janin was dead.

Would he _stay_ dead, though?

Natael sat up gingerly. His head ached, his throat was sore, he was already exhausted despite the early hour, but there would be no rest for him today. He had to talk to Taim, he had to talk to Logain. Separately or not, he did not know yet.

They needed a plan, a strategy. They had to get ahead of this horrendous Turning business.

But first, he had to replace all of the scullery maids.


	20. It's raining, man

_Can’t figure him out_

_He likes me, he likes me not_

_Who can tell, really?_

As if his life weren’t bothersome enough at the moment, to add insult to injury the weather decided to change that very day. You’d think it would be a relief for the temperature to drop a bit, after a boiling summer that had lasted two and a half seasons, but Natael was pelted by icy rain, then bloody _hail_ as he hurried to Taim’s palace.

He could have Travelled there, he thought – remembered – afterwards. He’d been partially shielded by Lanfear for barely half a year, and he was adamant that he’d never get used to it, but there he was, running from point A to point B like a _saidin_ -less peasant. It wasn’t far, but still.

His garments were very nearly ruined by the time he opened the kitchen door, the back entrance to Taim’s abode. It had taken him _two hours_ to figure out what to wear, for pity’s sake! His hair was a damp mess, he could feel it. He tried to comb it with his fingers, ignoring the kitchen maids’ curious looks as he headed toward the main staircase. He slipped on some melting ice, recovered his balance at the last instant by grabbing a counter, then realised that someone had spilled tomato sauce on said counter. He would have to use the Power to get the stain out of his sleeve, but there was no time for that now.

His predicament generated a bout of muffled laughter from the servants which, once again, Natael affected to ignore. He stomped off in what he hoped was a dignified manner.

He briefly wondered if they would report the comical scene to Demandred or, Light preserve him, to Moridin. He was tempted to dismiss them all and have them replaced, as he’d just done with his own staff (somewhat rashly), but what good would it do? Demandred would find new informers. Moridin probably had a dozen of them among the recruits and their families.

As he stepped into the hallway, he saw that Taim was coming down the stairs, a forbidding expression on his face. Uh-oh. What now?

“Ah, there you are. That’ll spare me a trip. Come with me.” Without looking to see if Natael was obeying his command, he walked back to his study. Natael followed; what choice did he have? He had to talk to the man, after all. That was the purpose of his visit. It wasn’t really a command, anyway – it was an invitation. Natael chose to believe that it was.

They settled in Taim’s study, the M’Hael in his leather chair behind the desk, Natael on a stool in front of him. It wasn’t comfortable, but there were no other seats available. Taim looked tired, Natael noticed. There were shadows under his eyes and he had not shaved. That was a first.

He was barely seated when Taim spoke up. “There was an…incident. One of the Dedicated killed himself.” He sighed. “By setting his barracks on fire. There were three casualties in total, and two men were severely injured. Third-degree burns. Flinn might have been able to Heal them, but our resident Healer, Dale, is not quite as proficient. Logain did what he could, but that’s obviously not his strong suit, either. They might not survive. I don’t suppose you could…”

“I told you I was not an expert in Healing. That hasn’t changed.”

Taim nodded. “I feared as much.” Natael didn’t like what his resigned tone seemed to imply: that even with his full strength, Natael was still as useless as he’d always been.

“I can have a look, though,” he said. “I don’t have Flinn’s skill, but I’m still more experienced than anyone else here.”

“Sure, why not. Can't hurt to try.” Flat delivery. The man didn’t care one way or the other. Why was Natael so intent on proving his worth to this man who obviously didn’t give a fig about him?

Neither of them spoke for a moment, but the silence soon became too uncomfortable for Natael. “I had a visitor this morning.”

“Moridin or Demandred?” Taim asked. No hesitation there; who else could it be?

“Demandred. He was cross.” He paused to see Taim’s reaction – would he guess why the Chosen was angry with them, unlike Natael? – but the M’Hael was waiting for him to go on. “Because we didn’t tell him about Logain.”

Taim idly scratched his budding beard. “I assumed he already knew. It’s been a week. His informers are not very good at their job, it seems.” Then, without any inflection whatsoever: “What’s our punishment?”

Natael didn’t answer right away. None, really, but there was this Turning business to consider, and it was a punishment of sorts, in Natael’s opinion. Especially without any female channelers to assist them. He wasn’t sure how to broach the subject, however.

He was taking too long to reply, because Taim leaned forward over the desk, his dark eyes boring into his. “Did he hurt you?” His voice was a bare whisper, but it carried a fierce intensity.

The question came as a surprise. Why did he care? If the punishment was physical pain inflicted upon Natael alone, why should that matter to him? Besides, the choking part had had nothing to do with withholding information. Natael had mouthed off, as he too often did. That was why he hadn’t planned on telling Taim about it.

“Nate?” Taim insisted. He got up and went around the desk to plant himself next to Natael. “Did the bastard hurt you?”

Still shocked by this unexpected reaction, the truth came out in a stammer. “I… Well, he… It was my fault, really. I shouldn’t have talked to him like that. I know Barid, he has no sense of humour whatsoever, I spoke out of turn… I had it coming.”

“What did he do?” He didn’t let Natael answer. “Do you require Healing? I can recall Flinn if need be. I’ll use a gateway to fetch him myself.” He actually seized the Source, as if he were going to do just that.

A few minutes ago, he’d announced that two men were dying and that only Flinn could save them, but he had made no such suggestion. Now Natael was here, apparently hale, his life not in any immediate danger, and he offered to fetch their best Healer himself?

A week prior, Taim was subjecting Natael to public humiliation and potential harm because Natael was late for class (or so he claimed). Was he trying to make up for that particularly cruel episode? Was this his way of apologising?

It made no sense, but Taim rarely did.

“No, no, there’s no need for that,” Natael assured him. “I’m fine. He just…choked me a bit. With the Power. I’m fine,” he repeated under Taim’s scrutiny.

The M’Hael relented eventually. “If you say so.” He sat on the desk, arms crossed over his chest. “Well then. Is that it? Did he come just to assault you, or was there anything else?”

“He wants us to Turn Logain. If, that is, he refuses to join the Shadow of his own free will.”

“Um, have you met him?” Taim scoffed. “Of course he’ll refuse to become a Dreadlord. He’s an idiot with a hero complex.”

Natael was not so sure. About the idiot part, anyway. “If we explain to him what we’re doing, he’ll help us.”

Taim narrowed his eyes. “He _might_ choose to help us. Or he might go find al’Thor instead, reveal our ploy and doom us all. Are you willing to risk it? Ablar doesn’t like us. He won’t trust us.”

_He doesn’t like_ you, Natael thought. _Then again, when he finds out who I really am, he won’t like me, either._ But they had to have Logain on their side; Natael was convinced of his importance in the battle to come. If the Chosen got to him, he’d make a powerful ally, even with his mind wiped clean by the Turning process. If Logain joined with al’Thor and exposed them, they would lose everything they’d worked so hard to attain, and they’d be executed for acting behind the Dragon’s back. “We have to present the situation in such a way that he cannot refuse what we offer.”

“And what is it we offer, exactly?” Taim asked with a raised eyebrow.

“A chance for him to survive the Last Battle,” Natael said. It was quite simple, really. Al’Thor didn’t know that Logain was here, but if he felt threatened by Taim, Logain, another False Dragon, would have the same effect on him. If the Dragon Reborn lost what remained of his sanity before Tarmon Gai’don, he might decide that Taim and Logain were a danger to him and get rid of them. For that matter, if he found out that Natael could channel at full strength again… He was toast. Natael had fought the boy once before, and it had not ended favourably for him.

On the other hand, if the Chosen (most likely Demandred) decided to Turn Logain personally... Well, Logain wouldn’t die, exactly, but death was preferable to Turning, in Natael’s humble opinion.

“If he pretends to become a Dreadlord, as you did, we can reverse the oath as soon as we get our hands on a Binding Rod,” Natael explained. Taim opened his mouth, presumably to enquire about the likeliness of such an event, but Natael forestalled him. “Demandred said he would consider lending us one. I told him that several of our men would be willing to take the oath, so we’d need a rod.”

Taim smiled at that – a real smile, the first genuine one in a long time. “Clever.” He actually chuckled. “Oh, this is good. He’s making it almost too easy for us, isn’t he? We’ll take the rod, swear in a few men, including Ablar – I bet dear old Barid will demand to be present or even do it himself – then we’ll simply reverse the process as soon as he’s gone.”

Natael cocked his head sideways. Did he really believe that it would be so easy? One should never underestimate Demandred. Or any of the Chosen, for that matter. “If that happens – if he insists on overseeing the deed – I doubt that he’ll leave the rod with us when it’s done. He’ll let us use it that one time on the men we’ve gathered and he’ll take it back when he departs. Perhaps he could be persuaded to return later if we can find more men, but he’ll never leave it in our care.” Taim was scowling now. “Our best hope is that he’ll be in a hurry, leave us the rod for a few hours, then return for it later. The chances of that happening are slim, though.”

“You made it sound much more positive, earlier,” Taim mumbled. “You’re counting on Demandred making the mistake of trusting us.”

“Even Demandred makes mistakes. He never renewed my own oath, for one thing. So it’s…improbable, but possible.”

“You think Ablar will risk his soul on these odds? That’s how he will see it, you know.”

The hero complex, yes. Logain will be reluctant to _pretend_ to join the Shadow, even for a just cause, even if, in the end, it benefited the Light. He was a man of principle; he would see it as treason.

“What’s Moridin’s part in all this?” Taim asked out of the blue.

“What does he have to do with any of this?” They’d had no news from the resurrected Chosen since Lanfear’s…death. Well, cold-blooded murder, really.

“He’s Nae’blis. Doesn’t that mean that all orders come from him? Demandred was likely just passing on a message.”

Aw, how adorably naïve. Natael had to laugh. “Demandred is no errand boy, Taim. He is doing his own thing, regardless of Moridin’s schemes. They might not even know that the other is involved in our business. So is the way of the Chosen,” he said with a shrug. “Nae’blis is just a title. It’ll mean nothing when the Last Battle is over, even should the Shadow be victorious. The remaining Chosen will fight over dominion of the new world, no matter who’s supposed to be in charge. They’ll always fight each other. That’s what they do.”

Taim was gazing at him with a troubled look in his eyes. “Do they… I mean, do _you_ really believe that there’ll be a world left when it’s all over, if the Dark One wins? He wants to destroy the world, or at least humanity, doesn't he? His plan ultimately does not involve giving the world away to a bunch of feeble-minded humans stupid enough to trust in his false promises.”

Feeble-minded? Hardly. They were delusional, but not stupid.

Taim had a point, though. The Great Lord had promised them immortality, limitless power, wealth… And here he was, a mortal with few possessions and very limited power. He’d lost three _thousand_ years of his life in a dreamless slumber – if that was what the Great Lord’s description of immortality entailed, Natael didn’t want it. And if the power had to be shared with his petty associates, waging an eternal war, he wanted it even less. “ _I_ don’t. Not anymore. But they do, most of them anyway. Elan is different – he just wants it all to be over, I think. To be proven right once and for all, then go in a blaze of glory and leave us to deal with the aftermath.”

Taim was smiling again, but this time it was the flimsy smile that Natael knew all too well. “I see.” Two simple words, but Natael could read worlds of infinite contempt in them. Directed at him or at the Chosen, or both, he didn’t know. “Well, at least we don’t have to deal with Moridin at the moment. Although…” He trailed off, frowning.

“Yes?” Natael prompted him.

“What if we asked Moridin for an Oath Rod? We could claim that we need it to swear in our most faithful recruits. Then, if we don’t get a chance to use the one that’s in Demandred’s possession, we might have a back-up. Is Moridin more likely to entrust us with the artefact?”

Well, according to Demandred, Natael was "under the protection of the Nae'blis", whatever that was supposed to mean. Elan had not been pleasant or lenient when they'd last met, though. It was probably just Demandred being jealous - that was his default setting, after all. “We don’t even know if he has one,” Natael replied. “Even if he does, the idea relies on the fact that Demandred and Moridin are not aware of each other’s involvement in the affairs of the Black Tower. If they are, they’ll smell a rat.”

Taim’s face darkened, but he didn’t seem angry, merely disappointed. “You’re right, of course. It’s too risky.” He scratched at his beard again. Natael hoped that he would shave it soon – it didn’t suit him, not at all. “Right then. I suppose we’ll have to talk to Ablar. Together?”

Natael nodded. “We have to brief him about everything, including me. If all goes well, he may end up replacing Flinn. He seems quite capable.”

“I doubt that all will go well, and he doesn’t have a tenth of Flinn’s skill in Healing, unfortunately. Nobody does.” He exhaled slowly. “Do we really have to tell him _everything_? I don’t trust him, Nate. He’ll rat us out, you can be sure of it. Al’Thor will have us executed, you do realise that, yes?”

He was all too aware of that, but there was no way around it. “If Logain knows about Demandred, we’ll have to inform him about the rest of it. If we don’t, if we keep things from him, he’ll question everything we said and assume the worst. We have to be transparent. It’s our only chance at…well, recruiting him to _our_ side. Like it or not, we need the bloody man, Taim.”

“I like it not,” he muttered. Natael almost grinned. Taim sounded like a pouty child. “But you’re right, again. Twice in a day, imagine that!” He graced Natael with another of his annoying smiles, but sobered up when he caught his murderous expression. “I’ll have someone fetch Ablar. Stay put.”

Not an order, Natael told himself. An invitation to stay, nothing more.


	21. The reluctant renegade

_Handsome and fragile_

_Foolishly brave and noble_

_That smile, that damned smile_

Logain had refused to meet them in Taim’s study. Atal, who’d been despatched to fetch the Ghealdanin, had returned with a worried frown, his shoulders tense, obviously dreading their reaction. Taim had muttered a string of curses, but they’d decided not to waste time with a second attempt at summoning Logain. They’d Travelled to the man’s barracks, which he had to himself.

At least he had not refused to talk to them and had not slammed the door in their faces. Taim would have murdered him on the spot, Natael had no doubt about it. Of course, when Logain had opened the door, Taim had not displayed any of his annoyance. He’d pretended to be there by choice, as if Logain had just invited them over for tea. Once inside, Taim had sat in the most comfortable seat available without asking for permission, as if he owned the place – which, in the man’s mind, was certainly the case.

“You want me to turn to the Shadow,” Logain said.

They’d been here for half an hour now. Natael knew that, deep down, Logain wasn’t stupid, but he seemed to be having trouble understanding what they wanted him to do. And why. And how. “We want you to _pretend_ to turn to the Shadow,” he corrected Logain. “In order to avoid being Turned to the Shadow.”

“Light, he’s thick,” Taim said under his breath.

“Listen to yourselves!” Logain exploded. “You want me to ‘turn to avoid being Turned’. How is that supposed to make sense? Are you both insane? Has the taint fried your brains?”

 _I hope not. But would I know it, if I were mad?_ Natael wondered.

“As we’ve been desperately trying to explain,” Taim said with utterly faked patience and a fair amount of condescension, “if you don’t take the oath, we’ll be forced to Turn you, using a process too despicable to describe. Once that’s done, there will be no coming back from it, Ablar.”

“The process may very well kill you,” Natael added. “On the other hand, if you swear on the Binding Rod, we can always remove the oath at a later date. It’ll be like it never happened.”

“So you’ve done this before,” Logain said, his brown eyes locked on Natael. From the moment they’d stepped into his barracks, Logain had done his best to ignore M’Hael. “You know for a fact that it will work.”

That brought him up short. It was a theory – it was Taim’s theory, actually – but there was no reason why it shouldn’t work. None that he could think of, anyway. “Um, well, no, but-”

Logain sneered. “This is one of your tactics, isn’t it? You sneaky bastards. I _knew_ you were Darkfriends. I bloody knew it. The moment I set eyes on you, with your thrice-cursed smirk-”

Well, this was directed at Taim, clearly, though Logain was still glaring at Natael. “Have you forgotten everything we just explained to you? I’m not a Darkfriend, Logain, I’m _Asmodean_. I’m one of the Chose…ah, one the Forsaken.” He wasn’t, exactly, but Logain didn’t need to know that. What he needed to know, to understand, was that Taim and Natael were on his side. Sort of.

“Yeah, I heard you the first time you made that ridiculous claim,” Logain said. “How gullible do you think I am? You may be strong, Ghraem, but you’re not Forsaken material. No one in their right mind would believe that. If _you_ believe it, then you must be delusional, and Taim is feeding your delusion.”

Taim scoffed. “Why on earth would he claim to be Asmodean if it wasn’t the truth? Why would he claim to be the weakest of-”

“I’m _not_ the weakest!” Natael protested. That may have been true when he was still shielded by Mierin, but not anymore. “Be’lal is the weakest man, and all of the women are weaker than he is, therefore-”

“He _was_. Be’lal is dead,” Taim reminded him. “And you can’t really compare strength in _saidin_ and strength in _saidar_. That’s like comparing apples and oranges. Besides, Lanfear must have been at least as powerful as you are, considering how she treated you.”

Natael had never been crazy enough to test that hypothesis. “Even if she was, she’s also dead, so she doesn’t count.”

Logain was shaking his head in bewilderment. “You’re both mad. I don’t know what the boy was thinking when he put you two in charge of this place.”

“Well, I don’t know what he was thinking when he put _him_ in charge,” Taim said, indicating Natael, “but I’m a capable leader. Did you see what I’ve done with the place? If you’d been here back when it was still the ‘farm’, you’d realise just how much I’ve improved-”

“All I can see is that most of your men live in these unsanitary barracks while you and your chosen few reside in luxurious palaces,” Logain snapped. “Light, I used to be a minor noble, but I never had as many servants as you do. You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

Taim’s face turned a dark crimson. He couldn’t possibly be ashamed; building a palace had been his idea. Natael had merely…balanced things out. There was nothing to be ashamed of, anyway. They ruled the Black Tower, they deserved proper headquarters. Did Logain think that the Amyrlin Seat shared a tiny, dingy room with her subordinates?

“Logain, we offered you a room in the residence of your choice,” Natael said. “It is one of the benefits of being a full Asha’man. You turned us down.”

“You fool!” Logain growled. “I don’t want your comfortable room. I don’t want your ridiculous pins.” He ripped out his dragon brooch, then the sword, and threw them on the unmade bed. It looked like Logain had been tossing and turning all night – unless he’d had some company. He was quite popular with the ladies, according to the rumours. “I cannot be bought by the Shadow!”

“That’s it, I give up,” Taim said. He stood. “Maybe you’re right, Nate, maybe he’s not a complete idiot, but he _refuses_ to understand. I told you this wouldn’t work. He’s too bloody stubborn. Let’s get out of here.”

Natael hoped he was bluffing. He dearly hoped so, because with what they’d just confessed to Logain, they either had to convince him or kill him. Still, he trusted Taim. He followed his lead and headed for the door.

“History is written by the victors,” Taim told Logain, “and victory often necessitates compromise and sacrifice. You can shout your allegiance to the Light from the rooftops until your throat is sore, and you can hold on to your noble principles without budging, but it won’t change the fact that, if you do not listen to us, if you don’t _trust_ us, you’re a dead man, Ablar. And what’s worse, you’ll end up serving the Shadow regardless. Only this time, it won’t be reversible.”

“You’re lying. You’re manipulating me into doing what you want me to do under a false pretence, and then I’ll be unable to disobey you or escape this place. You’ll have a hold on me.” Natael sympathised with the man and he could appreciate the fact that he had misgivings, but he had to see sense. Fortunately, he could feel Logain’s resistance chafing. He could be persuaded to comply to their…request, he knew it. He didn’t get a word in edgewise, though. “Besides, if you’re truly one of the Forsaken, Master Natael, why do you care what Demandred wants? Is there some…hierarchy of evil that I’m unaware of? Or are you afraid of him?” He grimaced; Natael had a feeling that it was supposed to be a taunting smile.

If he was trying to goad him, it wasn’t working, not this time. One did not joke about Demandred, even when he wasn’t around. You never knew who might be listening.

Although if anyone was eavesdropping right now, they were all as good as dead. They’d put up a ward, but was that enough? Even the lowliest channelers had their own special talents and tricks, and who knew what their master had taught them besides?

“I’m terrified of Demandred,” Natael murmured. He was loath to admit it, but it was the truth, and Logain had to hear it. “Everyone should be terrified of him, because he’s a cold-blooded, deadly genius. He feels nothing. He doesn’t care about anything or anyone except himself and his rivalry with Lews Therin.” That, at least, seemed to penetrate Logain’s thick skull. He was listening attentively and he made no snide remark. “Even the other Chosen are wary of him, even his own allies.” Mesaana was, anyway. Semirhage was just as terrifying as Demandred, if not slightly more so.

“In truth, Master Natael is currently a rank _below_ the Forsaken,” Taim said. “He was…demoted. His work here at the Black Tower is what may lead him to be back in the Dark One’s good graces, eventually.” Natael stared at him. What was he doing? “At least that’s the official story.”

“That was _not_ part of the plan,” Natael complained.

Logain didn’t seem to care, however. “What about you, Taim?” he demanded. For the first time, his gaze sought the other man’s. “What’s your ‘official story’?”

“I’m a soon-to-be Forsaken,” he replied without hesitation. He met Logain’s eyes. “They’ve lost most of their men.” Some of them had since returned, but Taim didn’t mention that. One thing at a time. “That’s why they need us – all three of us. Without counting al’Thor or the Forsaken, we are the three most powerful channelers in the world. Of course they want us.”

“That doesn’t mean we should offer ourselves to them on a silver platter,” Logain retorted. “We have to fight back. Why don’t we warn al’Thor? He’ll assume leadership of the Black Tower and fend off the Forsaken, as he’s done in many nations already. He’ll scour the Tower, then we’ll be free to assemble soldiers for the armies of the Light and prepare them for the Last-”

Taim was laughing. It wasn’t genuine laughter; he was mocking Logain’s naïveté. That was understandable – the man sounded like a brainwashed zealot. It was obvious that he’d never met al’Thor. “I’m sure that the boy is full of good intentions,” Taim said, “but he’s in way over his head, Ablar, and he’s becoming more insane by the day. How long has it been since he paid us a visit?” he asked Natael.

“Last time, he came with the bloody pins. That was about two months ago. We did see him at Dumai’s Wells, though.”

“Ah, yes. And remind me, why was he at Dumai’s Wells?”

“Because he was overpowered and abducted by Aes Sedai. They were en route for Tar Valon.”

Taim snapped his fingers. “Uh-huh, that’s right. And who came to his rescue, just when his allies were about to be overwhelmed by the Shaido Aiel?”

That was perhaps a bit of an exaggeration, but Natael knew what Taim was doing and he played along. “We did.”

Unfortunately, Logain looked thoroughly unimpressed. “Are you saying that the Pattern made a mistake, that _you_ should have been the Dragon Reborn, Taim? Because you think you’re more capable than the young man who is already recognised as a leader by many of his elders, and who didn’t lay waste to his native land to achieve that?”

“You’re such a hypocrite,” Taim snarled. “You destroyed parts of Ghealdan in your own campaign, and your army slaughtered as many innocents as mine did.”

“I did what I thought had to be done for the Light!” Logain seized the Source.

Natael decided to intervene just as Taim, too, got hold of _saidin_. “Enough! There’s no need for a pissing contest; you _both_ failed miserably. Al’Thor got the prize, if it can be called that, and now our mission is to ensure that he remains alive to fight in the Last Battle.”

“And to be prepared to take over for him if he goes mad before that,” Taim put in.

“So you’re not content to be a wannabe Forsaken, you also want to rule the armies of the Light,” Logain said.

The False Dragons were still holding the Source and glaring at each other. Natael shifted uneasily. If these two duelled with the Power, all that would remain of the Black Tower afterwards was a very large crater. Besides, he didn’t want this silly rivalry between them to develop into a Demandred vs Lews Therin affair. “Please, let us all calm down and-”

“What I _want_ is to keep this flaming world intact and live in it in peace for as long as possible!” Taim shouted. “Don’t you get it? Ultimately, it doesn’t matter what side you’re on, Ablar. Light or Shadow or whatever’s in between, we’re all against the Dark One. All sane people are against global annihilation, I should think.”

 _Except Elan_ , Natael thought. _Global annihilation is precisely what he wants. It’s what he’s been working towards all these millennia._ Then again, “sane” was not a word he would use to qualify Elan Morin Tedronai – whether he chose to call himself Ishamael or Moridin or Ba’alzamon.

Logain released the Source, scowling. “Are you saying that the _Forsaken_ are against the Dark One? That’s absurd, Taim. They’re his minions, everyone knows that. They do his bidding without question, and apparently without wondering what will happen to them after the Last Battle.”

“Because he’s enticed them with empty promises,” Taim countered. “But they’ll see sense. They have to.”

Natael felt as confused as Logain looked; what was Taim trying to say? “Are you suggesting that…” He hesitated. “…that the Chosen will, at some point, join forces with the Light to repel the Great…um, the Dark One?”

“They _have_ to,” Taim repeated. “We were just talking about it, weren’t we? You saw through the lies. You understand what’s really at stake – not world domination, but the end of time itself. Surely they will understand, too. They may be petty and prideful, but they’re not stupid.”

Logain and Natael glanced at each other. “I have no idea where that came from,” Natael assured him. “We certainly didn’t discuss _that_.” That was not at all how he remembered their earlier conversation. “I mean…have you _met_ Demandred?”

“He’s a genius, you said it yourself! He’s an intelligent man, Nate. It’s hard to believe that the Shadow managed to lure him in the first place, but-”

“You don’t get it, Taim. None of that matters. These are people who were endowed with fine qualities and special talents and wasted it all because they were _envious_.” He paused. “Well, it’s usually envy. Or greed, or ambition. A thirst for power. Sometimes revenge. In a few cases, a yearning for freedom. For example, the freedom to experiment on live humans without fear of the Ethics Committee.”

“Ethics?” Logain repeated. “What’s that?”

“Never mind, it’s not important,” Natael said. “What’s important is that the Forsaken will never defect. You can never hope to match the Dark One’s promises, let alone-”

Unexpectedly, Taim smiled. It wasn’t a sarcastic smirk, for once. “You just called them Forsaken without stammering, Nate. The Forsaken and the Dark One. Seems to me like you’ve finally mastered the Common Tongue. And how can you say that, when that’s precisely what you did? _You_ defected. You’re living proof that-”

“Do you really believe that I’d be here today if al’Thor had not severed my connection to the Dark…” He huffed in exasperation. “To the Great Lord? That I’d be aiding His nemesis and acting behind His lieutenants’ backs? That I’d risk lying to Demandred’s face? I have nothing left to lose, Taim! And nothing to gain, because I know that they’ll never take me back. They need me to mentor you – both of you now – and then one night in the near future they’ll have me murdered in my sleep. My failure and my subsequent betrayal cannot be forgiven, nor forgotten, no matter how many men I Turn, no matter how many would-be Forsaken I tutor.” Oh, for pity’s sake. “Would-be _Chosen_ ,” he amended quickly.

“Then why are you helping me at all?” Taim asked. He wasn’t smiling now. “You could have left weeks ago, but you chose to stay, to-”

“You think I haven’t considered leaving?” Taim’s eyes widened in shock. _He really thinks too highly of me_. “Of course I have. Spent many sleepless nights pondering the pros and cons, in fact. Unfortunately, I’ve come to the conclusion that whatever I do will eventually lead to me being brutally murdered. If I stay and we’re discovered, I die. If I leave and they track me down, I die. If I somehow live until the Last Battle…” He exhaled slowly, as if he were releasing his last breath. It was good practice. “I’ll probably die, too. In all likelihood, we’ll all die. If you ask me, all we can do at this point is live out our days in hopeless, quiet desperation.”

A moment of silence followed his prediction of inescapable doom.

“He’s a little ray of bloody sunshine, ain’t he?” Logain muttered eventually.

“Well, it’s been a rough year for everyone,” Taim said.

Logain snorted with unexpected laughter. “Rough? That has to be the euphemism of the century.”

“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, isn’t that the saying?”

Natael looked at the two False Dragons in turn, disbelief etched upon his face. _Are they becoming friends? Are they bonding over my…whining?_ Well, he wasn’t whining, merely complaining (and rightly so), but Taim would call it whining, undoubtedly.

Logain took a deep breath, then raised his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine, you win. We need to discuss this strategy at length, and we need to decide which men to trust with it, but I think you’re right, it’s our best shot. Besides, the Dragon Reborn is probably busy.” _Busy going mad, aye_. “Send a message to Demandred. Tell him I’m ready to become a Dreadlord...at his earliest convenience.”

Taim peered at him with an intensity that would cause most of their younger recruits to flee in terror. “Are you sure? This isn’t some trick, is it?” Logain shook his head. “You won’t do anything foolish when he shows up?”

Logain considered this. “No.” That simple answer would have satisfied Natael as well as Taim, but what he added was not so reassuring. “I might attempt something incredibly noble and brave, but nothing _foolish_.” This time he didn’t grimace or give a poor approximation of a smile; he grinned at them, displaying healthy white teeth.

It was contagious; Natael couldn’t help but grin in return. Logain was _really_ handsome when he smiled like that. No wonder he had company most every night.

Taim was apparently impervious to Logain’s charm. He rolled his eyes and spoke softly. “Light help me.”


	22. I solemnly swear that I am up to no good

_Much villainsplaining_

_Betrayal and secrecy_

_Still no Binding Rod_

“I don’t like this,” Logain grumbled. He was fiddling with the pommel of his sword, which was sheathed at his side as always.

Natael looked at him sideways. “Which part? Meeting Demandred? Forsaking your soul? Or is it the snow that bothers you, perhaps?” They were quite cosy and warm up here in Taim's study but, outside, the temperature had dropped drastically and the ground was covered with a thick layer of fresh snow. They would need to assign a team of Soldiers to remove it in the morning, so as not to slow things down.

“I like the snow. I prefer the cold to the unnatural heat we’ve suffered these past months.” Logain crossed his arms over his chest, as if he was determined not to appear fidgety. “But I have a bad feeling about everything else, aye.”

“All will be well, my lord. Demandred is vastly outnumbered. If he makes trouble, we’ll teach him not to mess with us.”

This was Atal, frightfully naïve as usual. By “vastly outnumbered”, he meant that they were four against one, provided that Demandred came alone, of course. And without an _angreal_ , or worse, a _sa’angreal_. If the Chosen had a Binding Rod, who knew what else he had in his possession?

Natael wished that the youth would stop calling Logain “my lord”. Blood and ashes, it was bad enough that he was constantly ogling the man, now he was very nearly worshipping him. And he wasn’t the only one. Many of their recruits – regardless of their rank – did not consider Logain as an equal, but rather as Natael’s equal. Or worse, Taim’s. (Natael often felt that, despite their status as co-leaders, the men thought of Natael as Taim’s subordinate. Which was simply ridiculous.)

Then again, the confusion was understandable. Logain, Taim and Natael spent a lot of time together these days, though merely out of sheer necessity. They had plans to discuss, strategies to develop. Logain liked to order people about, but in such a manner that it sounded more like a suggestion or an invitation. He was as powerful as Taim and Natael, or near enough. He exuded leadership and competence, just like Taim.

Natael had made it clear, more than once, that Logain was an Asha’man, nothing more, but even their most decorated recruits tended to call him “Lord Logain”, which absolutely infuriated Taim. But to be fair, everything about the Ghealdanin infuriated Taim.

“If Demandred makes trouble, Asha’man Mishraile,” Taim said quietly, “you will do nothing.”

“Uh-huh, let the adults handle the situation,” Natael concurred.

Atal threw him a murderous look. “I’m not a child!”

“You act like one.”

“You-”

“Enough, both of you,” Logain snapped. “Quit your bickering.”

Atal’s retort died in his throat and he stared at his feet, blushing. “I apologise for the disturbance, my lord.”

Taim looked like he was about to scold Logain for his intervention, but apparently decided that it wasn’t worth his time. “Let Natael and I do the talking. Your part in this, Asha’man,” he addressed both Logain and Atal, “is to take the oath and become Dreadlords. You will not play the heroes and attempt anything foolish. If you think you can defeat one of the Forsaken on your own, think again. And you _would_ be on your own. We cannot risk revealing our strategy. Whatever happens, Demandred must continue to believe that we are loyal to the Shadow. Therefore, if either of you attacks him, you will be considered an enemy and killed without mercy or hesitation.” Atal had gone pale, but Logain was expressionless. He had to know that this little speech was meant mostly for him, but he didn’t care. “Is that understood?”

“Yes, M’Hael,” Atal said readily. “As you command.” He may put Logain on a pedestal for no reason, but the lad still had the sense to obey and respect Taim, at least.

Natael was convinced that Taim had handpicked Atal to become a Dreadlord that day just to annoy him. According to M’Hael, they needed at least another man to pledge his allegiance to the Shadow, a powerful one, so that Demandred would not suspect anything. Natael had insisted several times that the Chosen was only interested in Logain, at least to begin with, but Logain had backed up Taim, improbable as it sounded. Taim had been more surprised than anyone else, in fact. For a moment, Natael had hoped that he would change his mind just for the sake of opposing Logain, but no such luck.

There were two candidates – Atal and Donalo Sandomere, another powerful channeler – but Taim couldn’t resist the temptation of humiliating Natael some more. It was his favourite hobby, after all. The official reason was that “Atal had been at the Tower longer”. Never mind that he was brash, unpredictable, immature, and utterly enamoured of Logain. And of Taim, like as not.

They didn’t have to wait long; Demandred was the most punctual of all the Chosen. He was alone, Natael was relieved to see. Not that he was any less dangerous because he was alone, but at least if anything went wrong, there’d be no witnesses.

Demandred surveyed them, looking down from his hooked nose. They were all about the same height, except for Atal, who was slightly shorter, but Demandred seemed to be much taller than any of them. Logain exuded leadership and competence, but Demandred radiated danger and power. He was in charge of any room he walked into, even this one, which was chock-full of testosterone already. If Lews Therin (the _actual_ Lews Therin) had walked in at this very moment, the room would have exploded with it.

“Great Master. I live to serve.” Atal nearly fell to his knees in front of Demandred. They’d commanded him to play the part of the eager, ambitious would-be Dreadlord, but he was overdoing it a bit.

Natael chanced a glance at Logain. That one was not going to kneel of his own accord, that was for sure. His face was composed, but the knuckles of the hand that held the pommel of his sword were white with tension. “Great Master,” he said in a tight voice.

Demandred must have sensed his reluctance, but he pretended not to notice. “Logain Ablar. We meet at last.” He ignored the prostrated Atal entirely. “You will be a grand addition to our ranks.”

Logain nodded. “I will indeed.”

 _Don’t get too cocky_ , Natael wanted to say. _Just the right amount of arrogance, not an ounce more, otherwise you’ll remind him of Lews Therin._ On the other hand, grovelling like Atal was just as bad, if not worse. Demandred valued confidence, both in an ally and in an opponent.

Speaking of Atal… “And who is this?” Demandred demanded, indicating the youth with one of his boots. Today, he was dressed like a Cairhienin, which looked odd, given his height.

“This is Atal Mishraile, Great Master,” Taim said. He kicked Atal in the ribs as he spoke, to make him stand, which he did, so quickly that he almost stumbled into Demandred. That would have been awkward. “Mishraile was one of our earliest recruits and is a fine Asha’man. He is strong and reliable, and he has been asking for a chance to prove himself for quite some time, now.”

Demandred didn’t seem convinced. It didn’t help that Atal was flustered, and probably not for the right reasons. It made him look even younger than he was. “Great Master, I swear to-”

“You will speak when you are spoken to,” Demandred barked. Atal’s mouth shut with an audible _click_ , and he turned an even darker shade of crimson. Demandred turned to Taim. “How old is this boy, Taim?”

Taim shrugged. “Younger than most, Great Master, but older than some.” That was a good answer. “I assure you, he will not disappoint.”

“No, I won’t, Great Master. I will do whatever you-”

“Of course you will do as you are told,” Demandred interrupted him. “That includes obeying my command not to speak out of turn.” Atal nodded energetically. His lips were pressed so tightly that Natael wondered if Taim or Demandred were using the Power to shut him up. “You will now take an oath upon the Binding Rod.” He produced it from a thin sheath that hanged from the belt at his waist. “You first, Logain.”

To Logain’s credit, he didn’t balk. His decision was made and he would see this through. It took less than two minutes for Logain to do the very thing he’d sworn never to do. His face never changed. He repeated every word clearly, looking Demandred in the eyes as he did so. After him came Atal, who stuttered a bit, but overall gave an acceptable performance.

“So it is done,” Demandred said. “I must leave now. Let me know when you will require the Binding Rod again. It had better be soon.” He opened a gateway.

“Wait!” Natael said. Taim gave him a warning look; Natael sounded too anxious. He did his best to speak calmly. This was a casual suggestion, nothing more. “Wouldn’t it be easier to leave the _ter’angreal_ with us? We’d hate to bother you with this sort of menial task too often. Surely you have better things to do.”

Demandred didn’t say anything, but he made an uncharacteristic sound. It took Natael a few seconds to realise that the Chosen was laughing.

Natael had been nervous before, but now he was terrified.

“Oh, Nessosin. You are so predictable.” Demandred put his hands behind his back and paced the room. “Do you truly believe that I don’t know exactly what you’re up to?”

Natael felt like his entire body had turned to ice, despite the fire blazing in the hearth. It was all he could do not to quiver with fear. “I don’t know what you’re talk-”

“Don’t insult me by denying it,” Demandred growled, all trace of mirth gone from his voice. “I’m always a step ahead of everyone else, but I’m at least three steps ahead of _you_ , Nessosin. I knew that you would do anything to worm your way out of this. I knew you’d try to curry the favour of both sides, in case you needed to make a last-minute volte-face, you opportunistic maggot.” He chuckled again, but this time there was no humour to it. “You dismissed your entire staff after our last interaction, as if that would prevent me from learning what futile schemes you were concocting.” He put one hand on Atal’s shoulder. “Your boy here has been working for me from the beginning, Nessosin. I took him under my wing the day after you so rudely rejected him. This is the second time he’s taken the oath.”

It was neither terror nor anguish now; Natael was in shock. Judging by Taim’s face, usually so carefully composed, so was he. Logain didn’t look stunned; his face was distorted by fury instead. Thankfully, he didn’t act on it.

“That’ll teach you to treat me like scum,” Atal told Natael with a vicious grin.

“So… What now?” Taim asked. He’d already digested Atal’s betrayal, or at least he looked like he had. He was cool and collected as he spoke to Demandred. “I think it’s safe to assume that, if you wanted us dead, we’d be dead already.”

“Why would I want you dead?” The Chosen gestured toward Logain. “You handed him to me on a silver platter. This was Moridin’s only condition for my continued involvement in the affairs of the Black Tower, that I Turn Logain to the Shadow, one way or the other. I had it done in less than a week, and without damaging the goods.” Now he sounded positively smug, the bastard. “And this is only the beginning.”

Taim scoffed. “Now that we know you know, there’s no way we’ll-”

“Keep feeding the Binding Rod with the unwary souls of your most powerful recruits?” Demandred supplied. “Of course you will. And those who refuse will be Turned regardless, soon enough. Speaking of which…” He extracted a folded piece of parchment from his pocket. “This is the report I would have expected to receive from you, but which came from Mishraile instead. A delegation of Aes Sedai in the vicinity, it says.”

_Oh, Atal. What have you done, you petty, beautiful idiot?_

“Given their numbers, I’d call it a small army, but they are still outnumbered at least six to one, a fact of which they are blithely unaware, if my sources are correct. They expect to find a rabble of incompetent peasants armed with pitchforks, or near enough. You are going to show them how wrong they are, but not by destroying them.” He smiled, _again_. That couldn’t be good for him. His lips were going to split for sure. “We will find a use for them.”

* * *

“The first man to discover the weave will be exempt of chores for a whole month,” Taim declared in front of the assembled crowd. This was greeted by profuse cheering and applause. Taim raised his hands and silence fell immediately. “You may experiment on whomever you want, _provided that you have obtained their consent to do so._ ” He emphasised that last part. Taim was very pernickety about consent. At the Black Tower, rape was punishable by death. “It can be your wife, your sister, one of the maids… I don’t care, as long as they have previously agreed to it,” he said again, for good measure. “Am I making myself clear?”

A chorus of “Yes, M’Hael!” answered him. Taim wished them good luck and dismissed them, then stepped down from the platform.

“May I kill you now?” Logain asked the moment Taim was level with him.

“You may not,” Natael said quickly. “It wasn’t his fault, Logain. I am equally to blame.”

“Oh, fear not, bard, you’re next on my list. But perhaps I should start with that weaselly little son of a-”

“Enough!” Taim hissed. “You know that plans change every time someone makes a move. That’s how war _works_ , Log… Asha’man Ablar. Demandred is a bloody mastermind, and we underestimated him. But now we know that he knows, which means we have the upper hand.”

“In what world do we have the upper hand?” Logain exclaimed. “We have both become Dreadlords against our will. The Shadow now controls most of the strongest male channelers alive and we have no way out. Moridin knows about it all, so we cannot hope to deceive him into giving us a Binding Rod. We are about to enslave fifty Aes Sedai, Turn them to the Shadow, then force them to Turn everyone else in this place.”

“Who cares about the Aes Sedai?” Taim retorted. “They have come to _gentle_ us, Ablar. How do you think we would have handled the situation if Demandred had not ordered us to capture them alive? I would have stilled them, let them stew in their own despair for a few months, then I would have hanged them in the square for all the world to see.”

“That fate is still preferable to what we’ve been ordered to do to them,” Logain said.

 _Can’t argue with that_ , Natael thought. Demandred really was a devious bastard. It was a brilliant plan, of course, but so…flaming… _evil_.

“Not to mention our part in all of this. I don’t think I can do it, Taim. It was one thing to swear that _reversible_ oath,” he said bitterly, “but to actually participate in the Turning process? It sickens me just to think about it.”

“But that’s what I’m telling you,” Taim insisted. “Demandred detailed his plan to us. We know exactly what he expects of us, and how we’re supposed to do it. Now all we have to do is find a way around it. Besides, we don’t have the required Myrddraal yet, and the Turning cannot be accomplished without them.”

“We’re _Darkfriends_ , Taim! We cannot disobey a direct order from-”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Natael cut him off. He spoke in a low voice; they were starting to draw attention. “Aes Sedai are unable to lie, but they still manage to manipulate the truth until it’s barely distinguishable.”

“It’s easy for you to say, you didn’t have to take the oath!” Logain shouted.

“Peace, keep your voice down!” Taim muttered. “If you want everyone to know about this, just make a bloody announcement from the platform, why don’t you?”

That shut him up, at least for the time being.

“We will deal with this. There will be no Turning under my roof, not while I’m alive,” Taim vowed.

“ _Our_ roof," Natael corrected him. “I’m also in charge of this place, lest you forget.”

“Should you be, though?” Logain said.

Natael blinked. “Pardon me?”

“Let’s see: you were once one of the Forsaken. You are not under oath. Demandred made it clear that you couldn’t be trusted, and that you’d side with whomever was more likely to triumph in the Last Battle. So I ask again: should you really be in charge of the Black Tower? Should you be in charge of _anything_ , for that matter?”

Natael’s mouth twisted in a sour smirk. “And I suppose you’d kindly offer to replace me? You’re an ambitious, power-hungry man, Logain. I see right through your holier-than-thou attitude. You’re no better than me.” He snorted. “Besides, if you want to point accusing fingers, let me remind you that it was Taim who suggested that we use Atal as secondary bait today.”

Taim seemed to swell with outrage. “If you’re trying to imply that I _knew_ -”

“Well, you do keep involving the lad in our business despite my best efforts to-”

“Oh, cut it out,” Logain said wearily. “We all screwed up, it’s pointless to assign blame. The question is, what do we do with Mishraile now?”

Taim and Natael glanced at each other. _Kill him for playing us_ , Natael wanted to say. _For daring to betray us_. He read the same answer in Taim’s dark eyes. “Hang him for treason.”

“Don’t you think that Demandred will punish us severely if we execute his favourite mole?” Logain asked.

“I don’t see how he could possibly punish us more than he already has,” Taim pointed out.

“Your lack of imagination is one of the reasons why you’d make a terrible Chosen,” Natael said, though not unkindly. If anything, it was a compliment. It meant that Taim’s mind was not as devious as the minds of the Chosen – including Natael’s own. “He could torture us within an inch of our lives. Or worse, he could ask Semirhage to do it. He could murder the few loved ones you have.” At least Natael didn’t have any of those. “He could destroy your reputation. He could have you poison the recruits who are overwhelmed by the madness. Thanks to Atal, he must know how you hate to do that.”

Logain’s eyes widened. “You’ve _murdered_ some of the recruits?”

“Only one,” Taim mumbled.

“I’ve dealt with the rest of them,” Natael said. Only thirteen thus far – it was a low number, considering that there were several hundred channelers. Logain’s face was a mask of disapproval. “Poison is a mercy, Logain. When you find out how the ones we caught too late died, not to mention the innocent souls they took with them, you’ll understand that.”

“If you say so.” He still wasn’t convinced, but it was irrelevant to the matter at hand. “But we can’t poison Mishraile. We can’t claim that the madness took him, not if he’s been protected from the taint for months.”

Natael scoffed. “Aw, you believed that, did you? You’re not protected by your oath, Logain. That’s a lie we tell to every new Dreadlord.”

“So there's nothing good that came out of this complete fiasco? Nothing at all?” Logain protested.

Natael shook his head. “The taint is still there, still gnawing at your brains. Only the Chosen are truly spared its nefarious effects. Demandred knows that, so technically Atal _could_ go mad at any moment, but it’s far-fetched. Demandred doesn’t believe in convenient coincidences.”

“Then we send him away,” Taim suggested. "As we did with Dashiva and the other bad apples."

“I have a better idea” Natael said. “Now that we know what he really is, we could feed him false information. As soon as we come up with a plan to counter Demandred’s orders, we can use Atal for misdirection, deception or distraction.”

“He’s not the only mole, though,” Logain noted. “There must be others, even among the Asha’man who still live at the Black Tower, otherwise Demandred would never have revealed where Mishraile’s loyalty truly lies.”

“Well, we always knew that there would be spies, no matter how carefully we select the Asha’man.” Natael had not seen Atal’s betrayal coming, though. Not at all. In fact, he was still reeling with shock. Was this his fault? Did Atal do this just because of Natael’s rejection? Granted, it had been prompted by Taim and his silly ideals of professionalism, but ultimately it had been Natael’s decision. He couldn’t even remember why he’d welcomed the lad in his bed in the first place. Atal was pretty, but he had a subpar personality, to say the least. Was Natael really so shallow? Ugh, he could have slapped himself.

“I’m afraid that we can’t trust anyone but ourselves,” Taim said. “From now on, we keep our ploys secret. We will still raise Asha’man and prepare them for battle, of course, and reveal our general objective as well as Natael’s identity, but nothing more.”

“Are you saying that we are to trust Master Natael implicitly?” Logain asked.

“He’s never given me a reason not to,” Taim stated.

 _Thanks for the overwhelming vote of confidence_ , Natael thought.

“Neither have you…so far,” Taim went on, eyeing Logain with his customary intensity. “We’ll have to take our chances with each other. We don’t have a choice, at this point.”

_Not that we had much of a choice to begin with._

“Well, whyever not?” Logain said wryly. “I’ve already forsaken my soul, thanks to you. What could be worse than that?”

Natael would have laughed, were he not afraid that it would sound hysterical. Those were words that ought never to be uttered aloud. The Great Lord never lacked imagination, when it came to making things worse.


	23. I didn't ask you to magic me!

_The hypocrisy!_

_Intriguing development_

_I wonder, what if…_

Logain had departed. The meeting had been tense, but that was always the case. It was not like they had pleasant matters to discuss.

Under the pretence of finishing his glass of wine, Natael stayed behind in Taim’s study. M’Hael was brooding in silence, his dark eyes boring into the fire, likely replaying his latest argument with Logain and thinking of what he should have said.

Watching the two of them argue was highly entertaining. They were both intelligent, with a sharp wit and a an even sharper tongue, and it was a delectable spectacle, when one wasn’t involved in their dispute. Logain, the hothead, usually ended up shouting, his face an angry red, and he tended to invade other people’s personal spaces. This time, he had even smashed his glass of water against a wall. Taim, despite his icy façade, had a rather short temper, though he rarely exploded with it. It showed in different ways: his words became more hurtful, he interrupted his interlocutor, his arguments were less and less rational…and he smirked _a lot_. That had always infuriated Natael, but it utterly enraged Logain.

A glass of wine in hand, a crackling fire in the hearth…and a tragicomic play with two very attractive lead characters. What an enjoyable way to spend one’s evening.

Today’s debate, much like that of the previous evenings, pertained to the Aes Sedai who were encamped nearby. Logain wanted to warn them, to explain what would happen if they attacked the Black Tower. Taim insisted that they had to follow Demandred’s orders…up to a certain point, at least.

“Have you ever wondered what it feels like?” Natael asked after a moment.

Taim rolled his eyes. “What is it that you want to whine about now?”

Natael bit back a scathing retort. “I’m not complaining, burn you, I’m just curious about the Warder bond.”

“Can we really call it that? Canler’s creation is not the same thing as the Warder bond. Not quite.”

No apology for his unnecessary remark, but Natael had not expected one. “Well, what do you want to call it? The Compulsion bond?”

“That’s essentially what it is…” Taim downed the remainder of his glass of wine. If Natael had counted correctly, this was his fourth of the evening – three more than usual. Logain had that effect on him.

“Do you think it works on men?” Natael asked out of the blue. Taim merely frowned at him. “Do you think a man can bond another man?” he clarified. “Or a woman another woman, for that matter. Has it ever been done, do you think?”

Taim scoffed. “The places your mind go to, honestly. What would be the point? A woman bonds a Warder for protection. Our men will bond the Aes Sedai to keep them under control. Why on earth would you bond another man? Have you forgotten about the secondary effects of the bond? The…emotion-reading, or whatever it is?”

That was precisely why Natael was curious to try it out, in truth. Ah, to delve into Taim’s mind, to finally know what he was feeling, specifically for Natael…

If he was feeling anything at all. Irritation, certainly. Anger, on occasion. But then there were these rare moments when Taim didn’t seem to hate him, these precious seconds when he let himself be vulnerable… When he was tipsy, for instance.

As he was now.

Unfortunately, when he had a drink too many, Taim tended to be hot-tempered and stubborn – much like a sober Logain. Natael had therefore two options: he could talk Taim into bonding him (just for a minute, as an experiment) or he could…surprise-bond him.

The pros: Taim was inebriated, which meant that his reflexes were slower. And once he was bonded to Natael, Taim couldn’t do anything to harm him. The cons: knowing Taim’s position on consent, bonding him against his will might get Natael executed. _Would_ get him executed. He’d be hanged in the square like a petty thief the moment he released the bond.

The obvious solution was to never release the bond.

Natael concealed a smile behind his glass. A silly idea, of course. He may have had too much to drink himself. There was only one sip of wine left in his glass, and the carafe was empty. The moment he finished it, he would have no excuse to stay. He glanced at Taim, to gauge whether he should risk pursuing this conversation.

He had not noticed that Taim was holding _saidin_ , and when he finally did, it was too late. His eyes widened, his mouth dropped open. He heard a glass shatter – was it his? He had no idea. He couldn’t think. An alien entity had breached the sacred privacy of his mind.

“Well?” Taim prompted him. “What does it feel like?”

“I… What did you… You-!” Natael stammered.

“I did what you asked,” M’Hael said innocently. “Now get up and jump on one foot.”

Natael spewed a dozen profanities, most of them in the Old Tongue, but he had no choice but to comply. _Blood and ashes, it’s even worse than Compulsion._ He hopped on his left foot for nearly two minutes before Taim relented. Even with the bond, his emotions were difficult to read. There was no smugness, no amusement. Some casual curiosity, perhaps, but not much else. “Enough. Sit down.”

“What…in the Pit of Doom…do you think you’re doing?” Natael panted as he let himself fall back into his chair. He was out of breath. Any form of exercise had that effect on him.

“I have to admit, it never crossed my mind to experiment with the bond, but I should have thought of it. We should test its abilities and limitations. For instance, will it affect you as the Warder bond? Will you be more resilient?”

“I think we can cross that one off the list,” Natael grumbled. He’d been tired before the meeting, but now he was exhausted. And hungry. He had not eaten since breakfast. It had been a long, busy day.

Taim nodded. “I can sense your fatigue. Your left ankle is sore from the hopping.” Natael glowered at him. “And you need to eat.”

“Yes, I do.” He stood up again. “Release me, and I’ll go get something from the kitchen. Then I’m going to bed.”

Taim ignored all of that. “You’re mildly annoyed, but not angry, which I find odd, considering what I just did, but perhaps you’re too tired for such a taxing emotion. Can you tell how _I’m_ feeling?”

“You’re curious,” Natael said briefly. This was a terrible idea. He should never have brought it up. Then again, he hadn’t counted on being on the receiving end of the bond. “Now will you _please_ release me?” No response. Taim was studying him, as if Natael was an entirely new species. “Taim?”

“Are you…sad?” he said in a low voice. “Why are you sad?”

“I’m not sad,” he huffed. “Let me-”

“Disappointed, then. I command you to tell me why, and truthfully.”

“Because…” A dozen lies came to mind, but he couldn’t utter them. “Because I can’t tell how you feel beyond the surface.” The words were dragged out of his throat by the compulsive element of the weave that formed the bond.

“Why does that bother you?” Taim kept on prying.

“Because I _need_ to know. I need to know that it’s not…just me.” Was he blushing? Oh, Light, he was, wasn’t he? This was one of the most humiliating moments of his entire life, and there were plenty to choose from. What was worse, he had brought this upon himself. “Now release me,” he growled, “or I’ll have you hanged, Taim. I have the authority to-”

“You asked for this,” Taim said, without a sign that he was willing to let Natael go.

“I only asked what you thought it felt like! _You_ interpreted my question as an invitation to…violate me.”

Taim scoffed. “Oh, please. I command you to answer me truthfully: did you not consider doing the exact same thing to me?”

“I…” This was almost painful, like trying to break an oath sworn on a Binding Rod. “…considered it, briefly. But I didn’t do it, did I?”

“And what did you expect me to tell you, anyway?” Taim went on as if Natael had not spoken. “I couldn’t possibly have a concrete answer for you unless I tried it out.” He sounded like a drunk attempting to rationalise a completely irrational decision.

Natael breathe in and out, slowly, and again, and a third time. “Well, now you know, and I have an answer to my question. Which means that you can…no, you _must_ release me.”

There was a pause. Taim’s eyes never left him but, after a few seconds, Natael felt a sort of inner _snap_. It was nothing like the severing of his connection to the Great Lord, but it left him equally stunned, as if a part of him had been ripped out of his body. Painlessly, but still.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he warned Taim as he stood. _Not without my permission, anyway._

He didn’t wait around for a reply or an apology. He couldn’t risk Taim taking advantage of him again.

“It’s not just you,” Taim whispered, just as Natael opened a gateway that led to his bedroom.

Natael hesitated, but only for half a second. Taim was drunk. He didn’t know what he was saying. Knowing the man, he would not remember any of this in the morning.

Or he would pretend not to remember, anyway.

Natael stepped inside the gateway without looking back.

* * *

Natael vainly attempted to catch a few hours of sleep, but eventually gave up and went for a walk instead. The frozen earth crinkled beneath his boots. He was glad that he’d remembered to wear his embroidered silk scarf, and happier still that his tailor had delivered his winter coat in time. The ermine fur was soft and warm and, according to his sources in the city, quite fashionable.

It was early enough that the only people he encountered were serving maids and men sneaking out to return to their barracks after a brief sleepover with their sweethearts or mistresses. Or lovers, to be more inclusive – and more accurate. Whatever Taim believed this could do to one’s reputation, it didn’t seem to discourage some of the recruits.

He found himself wandering near the training grounds, the only place that wasn’t eerily silent at this time of day. Clearly, Natael wasn’t the only one who had trouble sleeping.

Logain was hacking and slashing at a wooden dummy with a practice sword. He was shirtless, his back slick with sweat despite the sub-zero temperature. Natael admired the view for a while, as Logain grunted and exerted himself. The man’s stamina supply seemed endless. Had he been bonded by an Aes Sedai? Were those the effects of the original Warder bond? More likely, it was the boundless energy of a young and healthy man. After all, Logain had not yet reached his thirtieth nameday, though he seemed older (and occasionally more mature), thanks to his rough life experiences.

“Why don’t you join me, instead of staring at me? It’ll do you good, bard. You could use the exercise.”

“I’m in excellent shape, thank you very much.” He felt defensive, despite the validity of Logain’s statement, mainly because he was exhausted. And disliked being criticised as a general rule.

“You couldn’t catch your breath after going up the stairs to Taim’s study last evening. I’ve seen aged grandfathers in better shape.”

Natael sniffed in disdain. “What’s the point? You’ll whack me once and I’ll be on my arse in two seconds flat. Hardly the sort of thing to build one’s endurance.”

“Suit yourself,” Logain said. “What are you doing up so early, anyway? You usually sleep well past breakfast time.”

The recruits’ breakfast time, perhaps. As leader of the Black Tower, Natael wasn’t tied to the men’s strict schedule. He could wake up and eat whenever he bloody felt like it, no matter how many times Taim complained about it. After all, M’Hael had established himself as the role model around here. Natael often served as an example of the things the recruits were _not_ to do. “I have a lot on my mind. Taim is being a pain in my…back.”

He remonstrated himself half a second later. That was not the sort of things he should say to Logain.

“That’s a euphemism, but you got the gist of it, I suppose.” There was a pause as Logain put his shirt back on. It clung to his sweaty skin, outlining the hard muscles underneath as if he was wearing nothing. “I don’t understand what you see in him.” He laughed at his own words. “Then again, I don’t understand what he sees in you, either. You two are such an odd couple.”

Natael, who was still distracted by Logain’s nearly see-through shirt, didn’t process the other man’s musings right away.

_Wait, what?_

His first instinct was to deny it unequivocally, but there was no judgement in Logain’s voice, no reproach. He sounded vaguely amused, if anything, but not in a mocking way. Therefore, Natael’s second instinct told him to investigate this most unexpected sentence until he knew exactly what Logain meant. “We…are?”

The man didn’t notice Natael’s surprise. He was busy rearranging the dummy for the recruits’ sword practice in the morning. “Truly, you quibble and squabble more than my parents, and they’ve been married nearly thirty years. It’s almost…charming. Well, it would be, if it didn’t constantly get in the way of getting things done.”

Did he really believe that Taim and he were a couple? As in, a romantically-involved couple? Natael didn’t dare ask him outright, for fear of being ridiculed if he interpreted Logain’s meaning the wrong way. “It doesn’t…bother you, does it?”

“That your lovers’ quarrels impede our business? Yeah, it does bother me. Argue in the privacy of your bedroom, for the sake of the Light. We have a lot of important matters to discuss, and it ought to be done seriously.”

“No, I mean…that we’re a couple. It doesn’t bother you?”

“I’m not a hayseed from some Light-forsaken country town, bard. I lived in a castle. I led an army. I’ve seen stranger pairings, believe me. Besides, it’s none of my business. As long as your private life doesn’t interfere with the affairs of the Black Tower, or with the current…quagmire, I’ll just pretend it’s not happening. Like everyone else does.”

Ah. Now that was another issue entirely. “Does…does everyone think that…”

Logain was now putting back the various weapons he’d used during his training session, and he was still oblivious to the fact that this was all a revelation to Natael. “Well, it’s hardly a secret, is it? You shared a tent at Dumai’s Wells. And here, you may have separate lodgings to keep up appearances, but unless you have some chores to attend to, you’re always together. You’re in Taim’s study, he’s in yours… Always talking in low voices, unless you’re bickering, and stealing longing glances when you’re pretending to be mad at each other.” Logain shrugged. “The men aren’t blind, you know. Also, they already know you’re a queer one. You had a fling with the dirty weasel when Mishraile first arrived, didn’t you?”

Natael didn’t know what to say. Not about the sordid Atal fling – he didn’t give a fig about that, not anymore. But was Taim aware of these…rumours? Natael doubted it. He’d be furious if he knew. And he would have nipped it in the bud as soon as he found out, too.

On the plus side, everyone already thought they were a couple…and nobody seemed to mind. Had Taim lied to him about the Third-Agers’ prejudice toward same-gender relationships? Logain made it sound like an almost mundane thing, even if it was usually discreet and not talked about.

Was Taim merely lying to himself? Was he ashamed of his…preferences? Or was he ashamed that he felt something for Natael, specifically? After all, he was who he was. Not everyone would be comfortable with dating a (former) member of the Great Lord's Chosen.

So many questions – even more than the ones he had when he left Taim’s study the previous evening. If he could bond Taim and force him to admit…

No, not that. Never that. That was a horrible trick, something only one of the Chosen would do. It was Compulsion. It was _evil_.

Natael was still miffed that Taim had used it on him, but he knew Taim well enough to know that the man would regret it when he came out of his drunken stupor in the morning. He would pretend not to remember any of it, of course, but the shame would be there, for the ones who, like Natael, had learned to read the signs. Taim would avoid eye contact. He would change the subject if it came too close to a matter he didn’t wish to discuss. He wouldn’t give Natael grief for being late, but he would be harsher to the recruits in compensation. That was his way of apologising.

Maybe it was a Saldaean thing. They weren’t the best communicators.

“You look a bit peaky, bard. You should try to get some sleep before roll call. Or, you know, before lunch.” He grinned at that. He was more prone to smiling when Taim wasn’t around, Natael had noticed.

“I…yes, I think I will.” There was no way he would sleep now, with his head ready to burst with new information, but he needed to be alone. He had much pondering to do, before he would even consider bringing up the matter with Taim.

“If I may offer some advice, before you leave?” Logain said. Natael nodded wearily. _What now?_ “You should put a stop to it while you still can. Honestly, I’m surprised that you, of all people, haven’t yet learned this most essential lesson: don’t get attached. Never fall in love, because it will destroy you.”

Natael frowned; Logain had a dark past, that had been established, but it seemed that they’d only skimmed the surface.

But he was wrong. Natael had learned that lesson early on, the hard way and, as in many things, Elan had been the one to teach it to him.

He wasn’t _in love_ with Taim, anyway. He believed that Taim would make an adequate partner, in these troubled times. Taim was solid, down-to-earth, capable. He was also nice to look at. But it would be temporary. Natael wasn’t looking to settle down or anything, and he was certain that Taim wasn’t, either. He wasn’t interested in love or even in a deeper commitment. He just wanted to survive. Everything would change after the Last Battle, no matter the outcome. Taim and he wouldn’t _have_ to work or live together afterwards, and they would likely choose not to. After all, they could barely stand each other’s company.

Logain went on, unaware of Natael’s inner analysis. “Unfortunately, given the circumstances, I’m afraid it will destroy more than that, should it not work out. A scorned lover, working hand in hand with the guilty party, both leading the most potentially dangerous place on earth? It will end not only in tears, but likely in flames, too, bard. Let him go now, before it’s too late, before it can do irreparable damage to your professional relationship.”

Natael almost laughed. Taim and he weren’t even a couple yet and Logain was already suggesting an amicable break-up.

The odds were not in their favour, that was certain. But Natael had always followed the better odds, and that had led to his downfall. He’d lost everything. So why not go against what he believed to be the safest bet, for once? The consequences could be disastrous, but who cared, at this point? If he was going to die (and the odds, again, were not in his favour), he might as well enjoy himself while he was alive.


	24. Dovie'andi se tovya sagain

_A kiss, fair maiden_

_I will suck out your morale_

_And defile your soul_

“You did _what_?” Taim demanded in a strangled voice.

“He kissed her,” Natael repeated helpfully.

“You… Why in the Pit of Doom… _Why?!_ ”

Logain shuffled his feet, his dark eyes scowling at the carpeted floor. He’d lost his confident attitude sometime between the last sentence of his report and Taim’s reaction to it. “That was the plan, wasn’t it?” he muttered. “You told me to bond the patrolling Aes Sedai if there was an opportunity to do so.”

Natael was confused, but he was enjoying himself immensely. Taim looked like he was having a stroke but, for once, none of his anger was directed at Natael. It was a pleasant change.

“Bond them, yes,” Taim said. His jaws were clenched so tightly that his enunciation was rendered nearly unintelligible. “Not kiss them! Where was the kissing part in the plans we made? Nate, did I mention kissing at any point?”

Natael took a sip of wine before responding. “I think I’d remember it if you’d mentioned kissing. Ever.”

“Of course you didn’t say it, not in so many words, but that’s how it’s done! Light, Taim, why do you think I was so reluctant to bond them?”

Taim was staring at him. “What the blazes are you talking about?”

“Well, that’s how Canler did it, isn’t it?” Logain insisted. “He kissed his wife and-”

At that point, Natael was laughing so hard that he didn’t hear the rest of Logain’s explanation. He spilled some wine on his turquoise shirt, but it was worth it. He hadn’t laughed like that in quite some time. It felt good. He expected Taim to chastise him for disrupting their meeting, but soon realised that the other man was laughing, too. He was pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand and holding his stomach with the other, shaking silently.

Logain crossed his arms over his chest, a thunderous look in his eyes. “What’s so bloody amusing? Is this some sort of practical joke? Because it ain’t-”

“When has a weave ever required physical contact to take effect?” Natael questioned him when his laughter abated. “The kissing is not necessary to the bonding process, Logain. That was just Canler being Canler. He and his wife can’t keep their hands off each other, not even in public. But you don’t need to seal the bond with a kiss, or whatever it is you thought you were doing…”

“Did all of the men do this?” Taim asked. His voice wavered slightly; he was struggling to get his mirth under control. Natael couldn’t help but smile; he didn’t think he’d ever seen Taim display amusement on this scale. It made him look ten years younger – his actual age, perhaps.

“Well-” Logain hesitated. “I was in charge, so I did it first, to demonstrate. I guess they just followed my lead.”

Natael let out another loud guffaw, which he quickly suppressed when he caught sight of Logain’s expression. “Ahem. Sorry.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Taim announced after a few seconds of silence, during which Logain tried to sear a hole through Natael’s forehead with his eyes. “I really, really don’t. I mean, I can’t even imagine what the witches must be thinking. They didn’t have a high opinion of us to begin with…”

“Eh, don’t worry about it,” Natael said. “From my point of view, you’re all dim-witted savages anyway.”

“I suppose some of us are,” Taim acquiesced.

“On the bright side,” Natael went on before Logain could strangle either of them, “you aren't stuck with the ugliest of the lot.”

That put an end to Taim’s uncharacteristic spell of hilarity. His face soured as if he’d bitten into a lemon. “What do you mean?”

“Well, that Brawley woman, she’s quite lovely. You know, for an Aes Sedai. Nice hair, pretty green eyes, and she knows how to accessorise…”

“You looked at her for two seconds and you remember what colour her eyes are?”

The colour of her eyes, her hair, her dress, her shawl, what gem was on which ring on which finger… He had a photographic memory. It was a gift – and a curse, sometimes.

It was Logain’s turn to laugh. “Are you jealous of an Aes Sedai, Taim?”

“I’m not _jealous_. I’m just saying, it doesn’t matter if she’s attractive or not. You shouldn’t have kissed her. She’ll think we’re all insane already.”

Deny it as he may, he _was_ jealous, Natael noted. He tended to change the subject when it wasn’t to his taste, and he contradicted himself. A moment ago, he was laughing at Logain’s hilarious blunder, now he was scolding him.

And now that he thought about it, it was a shame that only Logain had erred in this fashion. Taim and Natael’s brief experimentation with the bond would have turned out quite differently, if Taim had tried it Canler's way…

“Nate?” Taim repeated. “Are you still with us?”

Natael blinked. He’d missed part of the conversation, apparently. “Huh?”

“Is he always this articulate?” Logain asked with a smirk.

Taim ignored him. “As Ablar was saying, there is one tiny bump in our plan.”

“Why am I not surprised? There’s always a bump. Well, usually, it’s more of a massive, lethal and unforeseen complication, but-”

“Can you pay attention for a second?” Taim barked. Natael nodded with bad grace. “We miscounted the number of witches. We are one man short for tomorrow’s expedition.”

“So? Let’s anoint a new Asha’man and have him kiss the last Aes Sedai.”

Logain was unimpressed both by his wit and his suggestion. “We’ve already taken risks, promoting so many men in such a short time. There are at least half a dozen I’m not entirely sure we can trust.”

“Besides,” Taim continued, “according to Ablar’s captive, their leader is among the stragglers, a woman named Toveine Gazal. Wouldn’t it make sense to bond the Head Witch to one of the leaders of the Black Tower?”

Natael dazzled him with a smile. “Are you volunteering, M’Hael?”

“Well, Gabrelle says that Toveine is Saldaean…” Logain said.

“All the more reason for me _not_ to bond her. We would make an explosive pair,” Taim argued.

“You’d make an explosive pair with anyone!” Natael countered. “What if she figures out who I am?”

“Peace, Nate, even bonded, she can’t read your blasted mind. If you’re discreet-”

“Have you ever known me to be discreet?”

“Alright, tell you what,” Logain interrupted them. “Why don’t you leave the decision to fate?” He extracted something from his pocket: a dice. “Whoever rolls the lowest number bonds the woman. Fair?”

“That’s a terrible idea,” Natael said. He had no luck at games that involved chance. He was no Mat Cauthon.

“Then it’s probably fair,” Logain said firmly. “Taim, you go first.”

“At least shield him,” Natael said. “Otherwise he’ll cheat.”

Taim sneered. “Shield us both, then. Otherwise _he’ll_ cheat.”

Logain didn’t bother to argue with them and simply complied. Taim rolled a two. His eyes flashed with aggravation as he handed the dice to Natael, who beamed, feeling smug and anticipatively triumphant.

He closed his eyes. There was no way he could lose. Well, there was a way, but the odds were overwhelmingly in his favour. He’d never understood mathematics, to Elan’s despair, but that was clear, even to him. _Don’t roll a one. Don’t roll a one. Don’t roll a one._ He shook the dice in his enclosed fist three times before releasing it.

Then he opened his eyes, and gaped at the treacherous dice in speechless horror.

* * *

Natael reluctantly left the cover of the trees and planted himself in front of the oncoming Aes Sedai. The woman who led them, Toveine Gazal, appeared to be of the Red Ajah, if her red shawl and crimson dress were any indication. She looked stern, intelligent, and proud. In other words, very Taim-like. It was unfair; M’Hael should be here today, not him. That cursed dice! Next time his fate had to be decided by such arbitrary means, he would demand to have a champion roll the dice in his stead, as if it were a duel, and have Mat Cauthon fetched immediately.

“Halt!” the Aes Sedai called. “You, there! Out of the way! I am-”

“I know who you are, Mistress Gazal.” Natael bowed slightly, flourishing his ermine coat as if it were a gleeman’s cloak. “Pleasure to meet you, I’m sure.”

The Aes Sedai studied him for a moment. “And who might you be?”

“Jasin Natael, Official Court Bard of the Lord Dragon, at your service.”

Gazal scoffed. “A _bard_?”

The plan was working so far; Taim had known that they would dismiss him as soon as he introduced himself under this title. They weren’t on their guard, despite the proximity to the Black Tower and the fact that he was a man. They didn't consider him a threat – or perhaps they simply underestimated him, even though their sisters had been captured the previous day. Then again, Natael was alone.

On the road, that was. There were three dozen men hidden in the bushes and trees, some concealed by _saidin_. The Aes Sedai were outnumbered nearly two to one. Apparently, none of them possessed a _ter’angreal_ that could detect a man channelling in the vicinity.

Natael grabbed his lyre from the strap at his hip and strung it dramatically. “Aye, my dear ladies.” He played three more notes. “Here’s a song I composed in honour of your visit. _Oh, sweet she was, and pure and fair-_ ”

“Enough of this! Let us pass, you fool. We have important-”

“Important matters to attend to?” Natael cut her off. “Yes, I’m aware. I’m here to distract you while my men shield you.”

The woman’s face didn’t change, and for a moment Natael was afraid that the men had deserted him and left him to deal with a small army of Aes Sedai on his own, armed only with his lyre. Thankfully, Gazal’s subordinates were not as poised as she was; two of them wailed when they realised that they were cut off from the Source, and one of them fainted. Logain caught her before she could fall off her horse.

The rest of the men revealed themselves. Gazal surveyed them from her perch – her horse was a gigantic steed whose size contrasted with that of its mistress – then turned to look over her shoulder at her sisters. She shushed them, of all things, before returning her attention to Natael. “Who are you, really?”

“Exactly who I said I was,” he replied amicably. “Though I’m also known as Ghraem, co-leader of the Black Tower. Not so much at your service.”

“I see. And what is it that you intend to do with us, Master Natael?” A sign of defiance, that she refused to address him by his title. In fairness, though, it’d never occur to him to call her “Toveine Aes Sedai”. None of them deserved that ancient, noble title, least of all a Red.

He made his way toward her, playing a few cheerful notes on his lyre. “I want to kiss you,” he said, gazing into her eyes with faked adoration. She was actually quite pretty. How nice of Elaida to have sent them her most attractive minions.

Nothing he’d said before had perturbed Gazal in the slightest, but her steed was shifty now, sensing its mistress’s discomfort. “I…beg your pardon?” she said politely, certain that she’d misheard.

“He wants to kiss you!” one of the men repeated loudly.

“Kiss her!” another shouted.

Soon most of them had taken up the chant. _Kiss her, kiss her!_

Logain’s face was the same colour as the wine Natael had spilled on his shirt the previous night. Natael wondered if it was genuinely expected of him to kiss the bloody woman. That was definitely _not_ part of the plan he’d been loath to follow to begin with. Hadn’t Taim explained to everyone that kissing wasn’t required to form the bond?

Or were the men messing with him?

Gazal, despite her remarkable calm under the circumstances, had gone two shades paler. _I wonder what she’s thinking. Is she afraid that I’m going to sexually abuse her? Light, I hope not. That’s quite distasteful. Then again, what else could she possibly be thinking? She must believe us to be the dim-witted savages I mentioned last night._

“Don’t listen to them,” Logain whispered. He’d let the delicate Aes Sedai in the care of another man. “You don’t have to do it Canler’s way. They’re just teasing you. Well, you and the women, really.”

“That’s not teasing,” Natael whispered back. “Look at them; they’re flaming terrified.”

It was true. Gazal was holding on to her countenance by a thread, but her sisters, though they were obeying the shushing command, were not faring so well. One was weeping silently. Two more had brought their horses closer so that they could embrace each other. Another had her eyes closed and seemed to be praying.

“Make them stop,” he told Logain. He was well aware that the men wouldn’t stop chanting if _he_ ordered it, but they listened to Logain when he whistled and yelled at them to shut up or else.

Natael turned his attention to Gazal again. “There will be no kissing or anything of the sort.” He sighed deeply. “But you will curse me, alright, when you understand what I’ve done to you.”

* * *

“It’s all your fault, Toveine!”

“What were you thinking? We lost half of our sisters, and still you insisted on pursuing the mission?”

“Did you seriously believe that they could be reasoned with? They are _men_!”

“ _Male_ _channelers_!”

“Enough!” Natael shouted. Toveine’s emotions, unlike Taim’s, were neatly divided: there was anger, of course, at what Natael had done to her. A Red, bonded to a man! It was sacrilegious. There was shame, for being ambushed and captured without having the chance to put up a fight. There was regret, for not shielding or gentling him on the spot. There was dread, now that she’d seen the inside of the Black Tower, with its milling crowd of male channelers. And, no matter how hard she tried to suppress it, there was fear. Oh, and she was a bit hungry, too. She’d refused to have dinner. “Blimey, what a cacophony. Leave the woman alone. She’s not to blame. Elaida sent you on a suicide mission and abandoned you when she realised her mistake. Blame her.”

“Actually, I think I’ll blame _you_ ,” one haughty Grey said. “You revolting piece of-”

“Shut up!” her bondmate commanded. He was a young recruit whose name Natael couldn’t remember. “You will respect Ghraem and M’Hael and Logain and obey them as you would obey me!”

“Woah, easy, lad,” Natael said, though he was pleased to be included, for once. “Use the power of your bond wisely. It is not to be toyed with.”

“Is that her?”

Natael’s head followed the voice to find Taim standing nearby, hands behind his back. “Yes, M’Hael, this is Toveine Gazal of the Red Ajah, leader of the Incapacitated Sisterhood of We-Badly-Underestimated-You.”

Toveine rolled her eyes – Natael had already noticed that she did that a lot. Another Saldaean thing, he presumed. “Taim.” She said his name with such rage and contempt that Natael felt it reverberate through the bond. “You will pay for your heinous crimes, you-”

“Shhh,” Natael said, imitating Toveine’s earlier orders to her sisters. “You will speak when spoken to. And you will address us by our proper titles: M’Hael and Ghraem.”

She wanted to protest. She wanted to insult him – both of them, really. He could tell, but she was incapable of doing so, thanks to the bond. “Proper titles,” she said instead, sneering. “Titles given to you by yet another monstrosity, that al’Thor boy.”

“Actually, we gave them to ourselves,” Natael informed her. “If you can call yourself an Aes Sedai, why shouldn’t we have grandiose, meaningless titles?”

“What exactly did you hope to achieve, coming here?” Taim demanded, ignoring the titles debate. “To gentle us all? Did you even bother to scout the place, to get a better idea of our numbers?” Rhetorical questions; it was obvious that they had not. They had underestimated them from the beginning.

“There may be strength in numbers,” Toveine said, “but our strength is even greater, for we have experience, skill and respectability on our side.”

“Says the woman bonded to the bard,” Taim said wryly.

Natael gave him a flat stare. “The _bard_ sacrificed himself greatly today, gave up his basic right to privacy and is now stuck with this…woman for the unforeseeable future. A bit of gratitude would be most welcome.”

Taim shrugged. “The dice weaves as the dice wills.”

“To the Pit of Doom with your bloody dice!”

“Another domestic fight, eh?” Natael heard someone murmur. Three men in the back sniggered at the comment.

Taim either didn’t hear or chose to ignore them. “Ghraem, we will continue this discussion in my study. Bring the witch.” He opened a gateway and disappeared.

* * *

“What is it that _you_ are hoping to accomplish, holding us here?” Toveine demanded the moment she stepped out of the gateway into Taim’s study. Natael had sensed her reluctance at using it, since it had been woven into existence by a man, but she had not complained. “If you’re after a ransom-”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Taim snapped.

Toveine waited a few seconds, perhaps thinking that Taim was going to answer her question, but he didn’t. “Then what?” she prompted him. “We cannot teach you-”

“Oh, for peace’s sake! The Aes Sedai superiority complex is seriously getting on my nerves, sister.”

Toveine remained silent a moment, and Natael had a feeling that she was too proud to repeat her question a third time. On the other hand, he could also tell that Taim was enjoying this. In other words, they were going nowhere with this. “We…just need you to stay here for a while,” Natael said. “Hidden from sight. The other recruits cannot know that you’re here. You’ll have to be discreet.”

“What mad scheme is this?”

“We’re not mad,” Taim growled. “Believe it or not, we’re trying to _protect_ you.”

Toveine stared at him wide-eyed, then turned to Natael. “Protect us? From what? The other men?”

“…sort of?” Natael said hesitantly. “Look, no one’s going to hurt you. Any of you. That’s a promise. When the time is right, we’ll let you go, alright? But at this very moment, you’re safer here than anywhere else. You have to trust us.”

“Give me one good reason why I should trust you,” Toveine challenged him. “The scrawny bard with the otherworldly accent and the vicious, mass-murdering False Dragon.”

That was an easy one. “Because you don’t have a choice.”


	25. I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit

_I saw the queen’s butt_

_And her bare, royal bosom_

_But it’s not the point_

“What do you mean, she undressed in front of you?”

Toveine Gazal had taken residence in the room adjacent to Natael’s. Such proximity wasn’t necessary, strictly speaking, but caution dictated that they should keep an eye on the Aes Sedai they’d bonded. Or so Taim claimed.

Unfortunately, they didn’t have nearly enough space to house the Asha’man, as well as the Aes Sedai, in the palaces. A new construction was therefore underway. Instead of a palace, it would be…an inn, of sorts. The official explanation was that each Asha’man should have his own room; in truth, the men would still have to bunk two or three per room. They would sleep in this new building, once it was completed, in a day or two, while the women would be divided between the two palaces. Gabrelle had decided to stay with Logain in his barracks, a suspicious arrangement in Natael’s opinion. Knowing Logain, he was afraid that it wouldn’t take long until the two of them shared more than living quarters.

“Well, some Aiel women barged into the sitting room and told her to take off her clothes. And she bloody did!”

Natael was still a bit shaken – and immensely confused. He’d seen plenty of naked women in his life, had often helped them removed their garments, in fact, but for a would-be queen to fully undress in front of three complete strangers, for no reason that Natael’s mind could conjure… For that matter, her royal status was hardly relevant; why would _anyone_ do that? Was Elayne Trakand trying to destabilise them?

If so, she’d succeeded.

But _why_?

Granted, the Black Tower was a thorn in her foot – in Andor’s foot – but what sort of insane strategy was this? What was she trying to achieve? All Natael felt like doing at the moment was tell everyone what he'd witnessed, in the hope that someone could explain to him what had happened.

Taim and Logain had suggested an obscure Andoran tradition, but Gabrelle, Logain’s bondmate, had never heard of anything quite like it – and not only was she Andoran, she was a Brown sister.

Toveine was equally puzzled, but she came up with a much more likely explanation. “Must be an Aiel custom,” she mused. “Wouldn’t even be the most absurd one.”

Natael, who had spent several months in the Aiel Waste, agreed. “But Trakand isn’t Aiel,” he remarked.

Toveine shrugged. “Plenty of them to be found everywhere, nowadays, thanks to the al’Thor boy. The savages must have converted the girl to their wicked ways.”

“But…why would she comply to this bizarre request at such an inopportune time?” Namely, when she had male visitors in her sitting room. Had al’Thor commanded her to obey the Wise Ones? Was Trakand merely a puppet of the Dragon Reborn? It seemed unlikely. The girl had been annoyed whenever the lad was mentioned, and she was beyond furious that the Asha’man had carved part of Andor to build their…compound. That was the word she’d employed. She would not use the preferred term and call it the Black Tower. “Does she have any clue how it made her look? It sapped both her authority _and_ her sanity in one clean stroke! No one is going to take her seriously after this. She’s never going to be queen.”

“Does it really matter?”

“What do you mean?”

Toveine sniffed. “Whoever ends up on the Lion Throne, they won’t be able to remove you. They can make your life slightly more difficult, perhaps, but that’s it.” Indeed. Any attempt to attack the Black Tower was doomed to fail; it would be like trying to take over the White Tower.

Even if the Aes Sedai weren’t divided, all of the female channelers in the world would be hard-pressed to dislodge the Asha’man, and any battle of this scale between male and female channelers would likely cause a second Breaking, or near enough. If there was any hope to defeat the Great Lord, they would have to stand together against the Shadow. Somehow, al’Thor would have to unite the two Towers before the Last Battle. Well, al’Thor or someone else. The Dragon Reborn was a busy man.

“So why does it matter if Elayne becomes queen or not?” Toveine went on. She didn’t give him an opportunity to reply. “Besides, I wouldn’t be so sure that she won’t. She has the Dragon Reborn’s support, after all. And if she’s anything like her mother, she’s more cunning that you give her credit for.”

“It’s hard to credit her with _anything_ after she pulled something like this!”

“Peace, are you still hung up on this?” someone called from the door. “Pull yourself together, Nate.” Taim strode into Natael’s study without an invitation, exactly as he’d done a few hours ago at the Royal Palace. In all likelihood, it had contributed to the surly welcome they’d received. “Surely you’ve seen naked women before. It’s not that much of a novelty. She’s not even that good-looking.”

He was wrong there. Elayne Trakand was nothing short of beautiful, in all physical aspects. It was her personality that left a lot to be desired. In this, she wasn’t that different from Taim – though if Natael had said that in her presence, she would have balefired him on the spot. He had a feeling that it had been a close shave as it was. The girl had mostly ignored Natael and even Logain, but the looks she’d given Taim were full of mistrust and anger.

Toveine, he noticed, was smiling. Smirking, really, but he couldn’t figure out why. Something she’d felt through the bond? An idle thought? Her emotions were easy to read, but they didn’t always make sense to him. At the moment, she was amused, but also…disgusted, for some reason.

Natael poured himself a cup of wine. It was a bit early for that, but he needed it. He didn’t offer one to either of the other two. “If Trakand isn’t to your taste, Taim, no woman will ever be good enough for you.”

Taim regarded him as if he were a female channeler – or something else he immensely disliked and found revolting. “I...didn’t come here to discuss the girl’s attractiveness,” he said prissily. “We must plan for tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

Taim rolled his eyes. “She’s coming to visit, you nitwit! Were you too enthralled by her nudity to register that information?”

“Oh. Yes. I mean, no, I wasn’t.” He cleared his throat. “What about it?”

Taim closed his eyes and briefly massaged his temples. “Well, we have fifty captive Aes Sedai to conceal from her.”

“What’s fifty women in a sea of male channelers?” Logain said. He was standing on the threshold, shoulder against the frame.

Was the whole Black Tower going to barge into his study without being invited?

_Do not ask that!_ he scolded himself. _Have you learned nothing? The moment you ask yourself that sort of question, someone else does come in and, like as not, it's Demandred. Or worse, Moridin._

“Elayne will be too focused on the army we’ve assembled here to notice the gals,” Logain went on. “They’ll be told to keep to their lodgings until Elayne is gone, and that’s it. Surely she won’t inspect every single room we have. Besides, the White Tower being what it is at the moment, Elayne must have no idea that Elaida sent these ones to gentle us.” He walked into the room, poured himself some wine and sat down in Natael’s favourite chair. “I wonder if she’ll get naked again,” he speculated, a faraway look in his eyes.

“If she does, I hope she has the sense to do it in front of _them_ , rather than in front of _you_ ,” Toveine snapped.

Logain greeted this with a strong, charming laugh, and he gave her his best smile, which had no effect on Toveine. She wasn’t easily seduced. Natael, on the other hand, was captivated. Life was so much better when Logain smiled.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Taim demanded.

Natael was going to deflect that question and forge ahead with the matter of Trakand’s upcoming visit, but Toveine spoke before him. He wished he’d commanded her not to talk without his permission, but it was too late. “That he’s a pig, and that you’re as interested in seeing Elayne Trakand’s bare buttocks as in seeing an actual pig. Much safer for her to undress in your presence than his. Even if you _are_ still a male channeler,” she added as an afterthought. “Sort of.”

“’Sort of’?” Taim repeated.

“Hey, don’t be like that,” Logain chided her. “He’s still a man. I don’t care for your attitude, Toveine Sedai.” He turned to Natael, who, for once, had no idea what to say to defuse the situation, or to remove that expression from Taim’s face. “Well, do something. Tell her to shut it, Nate. Or, better yet, send her to her room, so that we can talk amongst ourselves. She has no business listening to this.”

“Stop talking and go to your room,” Natael said weakly. “Don’t try to eavesdrop.”

Toveine was obviously tempted to defy him despite the bond, but in the end she executed her orders without a word. She didn’t close the door behind her, but Logain seized _saidin_ and slammed it. “What a…witch,” he muttered. “Man, I’m glad I picked Gabrelle.”

Natael glared at him. He hadn’t picked Toveine at all. She had been forced upon him by a loaded dice.

“Nate, what did she mean?” Taim demanded.

Natael buried his face in his cup, though it was empty. Taim didn’t know about the rumours, then. He didn’t know what the men thought he was – what everyone thought he was.

Chances were, Taim himself didn’t know what he was, or refused to accept it.

“Don’t pay attention to her,” Logain said when Natael didn’t reply. “She’s an old hag. She’s a _Red_ hag. They’re not exactly known for their…open-mindedness.”

Natael glanced at Taim. He still had no clue, judging by his expression. He was usually too proud to repeat a question, or even to ask it in the first place, sometimes, but not today. He wanted to get to the bottom of it. “Open-minded about what?”

“About you and Nate, of course,” Logain replied.

Natael seriously considered opening a gateway to the Land of Madmen and never coming back, but he seemed frozen in place. He had no choice but to witness his world crumble to pieces around him.

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much, though,” Logain went on. “As I already told Nate, the men don’t mind. Sure, they make jests, but it’s all in good fun, no harm intended. I always straighten them out if it gets out of line.” He leaned forward, unaware that Taim’s face was now dangerously blank. “Now, about Her Royal Nakedness's visit-”

“What about Nate and myself?” Taim insisted.

Logain looked up, frowning. “Well-”

“Logain, can you give us a moment, please?” Natael interrupted him.

He hesitated before standing up. “Er, sure. I’ll wait outside.” He headed for the door. “Mm, come to think of it, I’ll go down to the kitchen. I’m starved.” The door closed behind him.

“What in the Pit of Doom is going on?” Taim thundered. Of course. Now that it was just the two of them, he didn’t have to hide his temper or even rein it in.

“It’s just a silly rumour,” Natael said. He affected a casual tone, but knew it wouldn’t fool Taim. Burn Logain! It was one thing for Toveine to run her mouth, but did he have to implicate Natael by implying that he’d known all along?

“ _What_ silly rumour? Natael, I swear, if you don’t spell it out for me right this instant, I will obliterate you!” To show that it wasn’t an empty threat, he seized _saidin_.

“Well, for some reason, the men seem to think that you and I… That we…” Ugh, why was it so hard to say it out loud? He’d dreamed about it. Had seriously considered asking Taim, to make it real, instead of it being a mere rumour.

And he’d always chickened out at the last moment.

Toveine’s arrival had not helped, obviously, and after what she’d said today, it would be nearly impossible… Could he even salvage any sort of relationship with Taim at this point? After all, by keeping the rumour to himself, Natael had essentially been lying to him.

“…that we’re involved in a romantic relationship,” he finished lamely.

Taim didn’t react. His face was utterly impassive. He turned his back on Natael, edged toward the table and poured himself a cup of wine. He filled it to the brim and began gulping it down.

Natael took that opportunity to defend himself. “I didn’t start the rumour, Taim. Maybe Atal did.” Natael had a strong feeling about this. “But you heard Logain, nobody minds. It’s not a big-”

“How long have you known?” Taim demanded. His cup was empty already.

“Um…just a few days.” That was the truth. Depending on how one defined “a few”, of course.

“And you did nothing to dismiss it as a ridiculous, completely unfounded rumour? You didn’t laugh it off when Logain mentioned it to you? If you two talked about it, why does the man believe it to be true?”

“I…never confirmed it.”

“Nor denied it, apparently,” Taim growled.

“You see, I was thinking…” Better to do it now, right? He wouldn’t get another chance, now that the cat was out of the bag. “I figured, since everyone already thinks we’re a couple, and they don’t have a problem with it… Well, we did discuss this before, didn’t we? Would it really be such a crazy-”

“Discussed it? You mean that nonsense of a conversation we had back at Dumai’s Wells?” Taim scoffed. “Nate. This is insane. You’re insane. The taint has turned your brains to mush. I don’t…think of you that way. Never have, never will.” He paused to refill his cup. “You or any other man. I’m not…like that.” He downed his second cup as if it were milk – his second since he’d walked into Natael’s study, that was. For all he knew, Taim had already had a few. “You have to stop making potentially damaging assumptions about me. You may not care for your reputation, but I do. Tomorrow, first thing in the morning, before Trakand arrives, you and I will make an official announcement in front of everyone. Anyone caught jesting about it afterwards, or even mentioning it, will be severely punished, to deter the others. Am I making myself clear?” He stood straight, and his expression was stern, but his speech was garbled by the wine.

Natael considered meekly agreeing with this. He really did…however briefly.

“If you have no problem lying to them, you go ahead, but I won’t. Deny it all you want, you know that these ‘assumptions’ are more than that. And, contrary to what you led me to believe, they are not as damaging as you said they could be. Your reputation is safe, Taim. The men still respect you. Burn me, even Logain respects you, though he won’t say it out loud. Is it because of Toveine? Do you really care what an Aes Sedai thinks of you? What a _Red_ Aes Sedai thinks of you? If it bothers you that much, I’ll deal with her. She won’t utter a word ever again, I promise you that.” After all, maiming was his specialty, according to the buffoons of this Age. Not music, but the maiming of his musical competition. Might as well give the populace what they expected.

“This is the taint talking,” Taim murmured. “I ought to slip some asping rot in your wine carafe.”

“And here we go again,” Natael said with a heavy sigh. “Threatening to kill me when what I say makes you uncomfortable, blaming the taint… I am perfectly lucid. We both are, but only one of us is deluding himself.”

“I’m not-”

“Get out of my study,” Natael said. His voice was low, but firm. “I can’t reason with you when you’re like this. Come back when you’ve sobered up. I’ll discuss Trakand’s visit with Logain and we’ll make the necessary arrangements without you. You’re in no condition to make important decisions.”

When he was drunk, Taim often had trouble keeping a straight face. Shock was painted on it now. Natael could almost read his thoughts: _how dare he talk to me like this? How dare he imply that I’m drunk? How dare he order me about as if I were not superior to him in every single way?_

“I’m tired of this endless, confusing back-and-forth between us, Taim,” Natael whispered. “I’m tired of your moodiness. Your attitude towards me changes every day, if not hourly. It’s messing with my head worse than the taint ever could. I need to know exactly where we stand. I can’t go on like this. I _will_ go mad if you keep acting this way, with nary a care for my feelings. I do have feelings, you know. All of the Chosen do, contrary to popular belief.”

If anything, the Chosen felt too strongly – that was what led them to the Shadow.

He half-expected a drunken tirade telling him that he had it all wrong, that Taim’s attitude was the same towards him as it was towards everyone else, that he was reading too much into meaningless words and actions.

Instead, Taim let his empty cup fall to the floor and silently exited the room, without so much as a glance in Natael’s direction.

* * *

Natael stirred in his sleep. Elayne Trakand, clad only in her birthday suit, was visiting the Black Tower and nothing was going as it should. The men were drunk; the captive Aes Sedai were out in the streets, wearing their shawls; Taim and Logain were locked in a duel to the death. Natael was futilely attempting to deal with it all by himself, until Demandred and Moridin arrived, deemed him unworthy of the Chosen and murdered him. The Great Lord then decided to bring him back and give him a new body to punish him further for his failure.

He woke up with a wordless scream when he held up a mirror and realised it reflected Toveine’s face.

He was sweaty, his covers were tangled. _Did I scream out loud? Did Toveine hear it?_

At the thought of her name, he shuddered. That thrice-cursed bond was driving him mad. Everything in this flaming place seemed designed to drive him mad.

“Nate? Are you alright?”

Natael nearly fell off his bed. He turned toward the voice, but the room was too dark. He could barely distinguished a silhouette. Well, he didn’t need to see; he knew who it was. “What in the Pit of Doom are you doing here? You scared me half to death!”

“I’m sorry,” Taim mumbled. “I wanted to…talk to you, but you were already asleep. So I…”

“Waited by the bed and watched me sleep like some sort of deranged pervert?” He meant it as a joke, but he sounded dry and ill-tempered, perhaps because he was still miffed – both about their earlier conversation and about almost suffering a heart attack, just then.

There was a muffled sound. “You were tossing and turning and babbling in your sleep. I thought I should stay, to make sure you were…” Some rustling, and the silhouette stood. “Never mind. We’ll talk…later.”

“No!” He sat up straight, rearranged the covers around him and, seizing _saidin_ , he conjured some light. Taim held a hand before his eyes to protect them from the sudden glare. He was wearing a black, silky robe. Natael couldn’t help but notice that even that was embroidered with colourful dragons on the sleeves. “You’re sober, right?” Taim nodded, slowly lowering his hand as his eyes adjusted to the light. “Then let’s talk now. I’m wide awake, anyway. Thanks to you.” The nightmare was more to blame, in truth, but Natael was feeling petty. “Sit down.”

Taim didn’t move. “It can wait until morning, Nate. I-”

“Sit. Your arse. Down,” he repeated forcefully.

This time he complied and returned to the nearby chair. He usually sat regally, as if any seat was a throne to him, but now he was slouching and looking awkward. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

“I want you to give me an honest answer: do you have feelings for me?”

Taim was fidgeting with one of the cushions. He wouldn’t meet Natael’s eyes. The sound he produced next was impossible to identify.

Natael deemed it vain to repeat the question. Taim wouldn’t commit to a proper answer. “Well, I do. I have feelings for you. Romantic feelings.”

There. He’d said it.

He wasn’t struck down by lightning. He didn’t suffer a stroke. Time didn’t stop, the moon didn’t fall out of the sky, the world didn’t end. Taim didn’t burst into flames, either.

“I know that you think this is improper,” he continued. He was determined to say his piece, now that he’d finally opened up. “Toveine certainly seems to agree with the sentiment. But Logain doesn’t. The men respect us – _you_ – enough to pretend that it’s nothing out of the ordinary. Will others be bothered by it? Yes. Will they whisper about it behind your back? Sure. Will they try to bring you down, to sully your reputation, to slander you? You can count on it.” He removed the covers and sat at the edge of the bed, facing Taim directly, though the other man’s gaze was still locked on the ground at his feet. “They may even attempt violence. But you know what? It doesn’t matter. For one thing, because you can destroy anyone without lifting a finger and, for another, because you won’t be alone. I’ll be there for you, Taim. Come what may, I’ll have your back. And so will our men. You’re not alone,” he repeated softly.

Taim was still and silent for such a long time that Natael wondered if he’d broken the man’s mind. Eventually, Taim looked up, his dark eyes shining with their characteristic intensity, and asked a single question: “May I sleep here tonight?”


	26. What we did in the shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mention of suicide, homophobia.

_Bloody Aes Sedai_

_She has ruined everything_

_What the hell, Barid?_

This time Natael was awoken by someone knocking on the door, not by some monstrous dream. It was a pleasant change, because that sort of nightmare was becoming recurrent. Last night, however, he couldn’t remember dreaming about anything. He’d been exhausted, but it was the good kind of exhausted, for once. He’d had a dreamless, peaceful night.

When he opened his eyes, he realised that he’d overslept a bit more than usual, judging by the position of the sun.

The person at the door insisted, knocking harder and with some urgency. Natael didn’t care. He turned around to watch Taim sleep.

It was a wonder that the frantic knocking hadn’t woken him up yet, but there he was, snoring softly, lost to the world. Natael smiled – mostly in triumph, but also at how adorable this was.

“Nate, for the love of the Light, open the door!”

Oh. It was Logain. Perhaps it was important, then. Natael groaned, but he removed the covers, carefully, so as not to wake up Taim, and looked for his robe. He located it – it had landed on his dressing table – put it on quickly and opened the door. “Good morn-”

“Do you have any idea where Taim is?” Logain cut him off. He sounded out of breath. “Please tell me that you do. I can’t find him anywhere – he’s not in his room, not in his study, no one has seen him. The man is never late, why does he have to be late today, of all days?”

Natael grinned and pointed a thumb behind him. “He’s asleep, Logain.” Well, either that, or he was pretending to be, so that he wouldn’t have to face Logain, Natael, or reality in general. Natael honestly believed that he was sound asleep, but there was that possibility to consider.

Logain’s face turned a shade darker. “Oh. Um…well, that’s good. You two made up, then.” He cleared his throat, looking away. “Please wake him and tell him to get his arse outside as soon as possible.”

That was when Natael finally realised that something might be seriously wrong. “Is there a problem?”

“Elayne’s here, Nate. You know, the naked queen?” Oh, right, her. “Well, she’s not naked now, unfortunately, but she’s here, and she _demands_ to see Taim. Don’t know why she insists on talking to him – I told her I could show her around, but she’s a stubborn brat.”

“M’Hael will be down in a few minutes, you can tell her that.” Natael closed the door, sighing. This was not how he’d imagined their first morning together, but hey, they had a compound to rule.

He returned to the bed and sat beside Taim, who had not moved an inch. If he was faking, he was doing an outstanding job. Natael poked him in the shoulder. “Wake up.”

Nothing.

He leaned forward and spoke directly in his ear. “Taim, it’s past breakfast, your palace is on fire, and two men have gone mad and destroyed half the Tower while you were sleeping.”

No reaction. Huh.

“Al’Thor came into the room while we were both asleep. He’s making a public announcement as I speak.”

Taim was dead to the world.

Well…desperate situations called for drastic remedies. Natael kissed him awake.

Taim stirred and pushed him away, eyes still closed. He turned over and muttered into his pillow. “One more minute.”

“We don’t have a minute. Elayne Trakand is here. Unless you want her to see _you_ naked, you’d better get a move on.”

That did the trick. Taim sat up, eyes wide. “She’s here?!” He looked out the window and cursed profusely. “Blood and ashes! Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“That’s all I’ve been trying to do for the past five minutes!” Natael protested.

Taim lifted the sheets…and then covered himself again, his face turning an alarming shade of crimson. “Where are my clothes?” he mumbled.

“It’s too late, you know. I’ve seen it all,” Natael said with a grin.

Taim glanced at the floor, but his discarded robe was somewhere on the other side of the bed, if Natael’s memory served. He didn’t offer to fetch it for him, though. But Taim didn’t let that stop him. He grabbed the sheets and stood with them carefully wrapped around himself, then he seized _saidin_ and opened a gateway leading to his own bedchamber. “Meet me in the courtyard in five minutes,” he said, with all the dignity he could muster.

Five minutes was about the time it took Natael to stop giggling, but he was down in the courtyard within the next half hour (or so).

Taim stood rigidly in front of Elayne’s horse, hands behind his back, not a hair out of place. Logain was trying to get the attention of the Captain-General of the Guard. It made sense, considering that she was a woman. A pretty one, too, with long, braided golden hair. She was doing her best to ignore him, all the while keeping an eye on everyone else. She seemed to take her job very seriously and the bow strapped to her back was more than a mere adornment, Natael guessed.

Before he could take the dozen steps that separated him from the visiting group, Elayne and her retinue headed for the gates. Taim stared after them a moment longer, to make sure that everyone got out, then he turned in his direction, his mouth quirking in a half-smile. “The future queen sends her regards.”

Natael joined them at a leisurely pace. “She didn’t even notice that I wasn’t there, did she?”

“Nope,” Logain concurred. “Your name was never mentioned.”

That was more than a little insulting, but he was used to it. “Well, how did it go?”

“Without a hitch,” Taim replied. “She asked a lot of questions, insisted on talking to several men, women and children, and visited some of the barracks. She wanted to make sure that we observed the basic rules of hygiene.”

“She seemed surprised that we do,” Logain put in.

“Well, we’re men,” Natael noted. “Women always expect us to be unwashed pigs, especially when left to our own devices.”

“She obviously doesn’t know you, then,” Logain said. “How many times a day do you bathe?”

“Only once.” Taim smirked knowingly. “Sometimes twice,” Natael mumbled.

Logain grinned. “That’s more like it. Anyway, she was ‘satisfied’ with what she saw. I’m going to let the Aes Sedai know that she’s gone. Meeting in Nate’s study after supper?” Taim nodded, and Logain departed before Natael could agree to host the meeting.

“So…that went well,” he said when Taim and he were alone.

“No thanks to you.” The words were meant to be harsh, but there was no heart in it. Sometimes Natael wondered if Taim said these things merely out of habit.

“I had to make myself presentable. Thanks to _you_ , my hair was a mess.” Taim pretended to be fascinated by a thawing patch of snow. “And I couldn’t decide what to wear.” That was the case every day, but even more so when royalty was visiting. He’d settled on a simple grey shirt, his emerald vest, and his new snow fox fur coat. It was freezing outside. He could make himself ignore the cold, but it was easier to do that when he wasn’t, in fact, cold.

Taim was wearing one of his black coats, as usual, with dragons embroidered at the sleeves. It was a light coat, designed for warmer weather, but he liked to show off his ability to ward off the cold, especially in front of female channelers. “What now?” he said in a low voice.

What an odd question. Taim always had something to do, and he certainly never asked Natael what it could be. “Well, I don’t know. Don’t you have a class? I think I’m supposed to teach a group of-”

“I meant with us. What happens now? What do we do?”

Natael hesitated. He felt ambushed – did they have to discuss this here, now? What was there to discuss, anyway? They’d slept together. If Taim felt like it, they could do it again. If he didn’t – well, they wouldn’t. It wasn’t that complicated. He tried for a humorous answer. “Um…do it in your room instead of mine? At least Logain won’t panic when he can’t find you.”

“Is everything a joke to you?” Taim demanded.

Mm. Wrong answer. “No, I just-”

“I haven’t been sleeping in _weeks_ because of what you said at Dumai’s Wells. Weeks, Nate. I couldn’t decide if you were serious, or if it was yet another attempt to destabilise me. Not to mention everything you’ve said since then. Yesterday, you scolded me for not being truthful, and now you jest about it?”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you want me to say!” he retorted. “I thought it was fairly…straightforward. We sleep together whenever you feel like it – if you ask me, it can be every night – but if you’re uncomfortable about it, might as well end it now, before…”

_Before what? Before it becomes too serious? Before I actually fall for you?_

Taim moved closer to him. “It’s too late for that,” he said quietly. “For that…’before’, no matter how you meant to finish your sentence. I wouldn’t have stayed last night if I wasn’t over the ‘before’ part already, Nate. I thought you… Peace.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I knew it was a bad idea. I bloody _knew_ it!”

A few people, mostly recruits, were walking by at such a slow pace that they looked like sleepwalkers. Natael sent them running with a scowl.

“Let’s talk about this later,” he murmured. “But it’s not what you think,” he added, hoping to reassure Taim somewhat. “It’s not an Atal-like fling. I swear.”

He was serious about this. He wasn’t entirely certain how he felt about Taim, exactly, but he did care for him. And he wanted this to last. At least as long as they were both alive.

But he was afraid. This, he wouldn’t admit to Taim, because it was too long a story to tell. He’d been hurt before – badly enough that it had eventually led to him turning to the Shadow.

When he was a lad, and even as a relatively young channeler, his life was but a long series of flings and short-lived affairs. He dated mostly women, some young enough to be called girls, the kind who was impressionable enough to think of him as a famous artist, even though back in the day he was merely a struggling one. He seduced them with songs, which he claimed he’d written just for them. He never loved any of them – he usually forgot their names before morning.

Then he’d met Elan.

Elan, who had turned his world upside down.

Elan, who had destroyed him. He’d ruined his career, his life, _everything_ in under five minutes.

Elan, who had betrayed him, as he had betrayed everyone else.

But he couldn’t tell Taim about that, could he? What would he think of him? He’d never agree to share his bed again after hearing that.

“Fine. After debriefing with Logain, we’ll talk,” Taim said. His face was a mask. Natael could only hope that he would give him the benefit of the doubt and hear him out. He hadn’t meant to sound callous. It was too late to make amends, though. Taim was walking away.

* * *

“I can’t do this,” Toveine announced the moment Natael stepped into his study.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded. “You were supposed to stay in your room!”

“While Elayne was visiting,” Toveine underlined. Bloody Aes Sedai! They were taught from early on to lie without lying and to find loopholes in everything. “Logain came by to say she had departed.”

“Well, from now on, you are not allowed in my study or in my room without my permission.”

She ignored that. “You must release me from this bond.”

Natael scoffed. “Yeah, right.” He sat down in his chair and closed his eyes. All he wanted to do was think about what to say to Taim this evening. How to make up for-

“I beg you.”

His eyes sprung open and he gaped at Toveine. She was _begging_ him? He didn’t know how to respond to this.

“Please, Natael. Ghraem,” she insisted, even using his proper title. Her voice was flat, but her eyes shone with unshed tears. Blood and ashes! “Transfer it. To anyone.” There was a pause. “Anyone but you and… _him_.”

She’d called Logain a pig the previous day, so he assumed that _him_ was Logain. “Logain already has a bondmate, anyway,” Natael said. “And there’s nobody else-”

He should have investigated the bond instead of basing his assumptions on Toveine’s words. “I’ll take Logain over that…creature any day. I’ll take him regardless of the scandalous things he does to Gabrelle. _Please_. I can’t endure this even one more night. I never thought you’d actually…” She trailed off.

_Him_ was Taim. Of course. That was why the bond blazed with hatred, why her face was twisted with revulsion. She thought Logain was a pig, and she was mildly disgusted by him, but only mentions of Taim brought on this sort of reaction. He had never fully understood why…until now.

“It’s wrong. It’s unnatural. It makes me _sick_. Please, I beg you, you have to release me. Bond me to the lowliest man you have, I don’t care. But this is… This is…” She was silent for a moment, possibly looking for a word stronger than _wrong_ and _unnatural_. Natael was too stunned to provide one. “It’s torture worthy of the Forsaken, Natael. You can’t do this to me. I’m an Aes Sedai, for peace’s sake!”

Whoa. For once in his life, he was speechless. Truly and utterly speechless. How could anyone be so hateful of something that was absolutely none of their business? Except one of the Chosen, that was. Was Toveine Black Ajah? Then again, maybe it was just a Red Ajah thing. They had strange opinions about men.

“Are you even listening to me?” she demanded, hands on her hips. Natael could only stare at her. She sniffed. “Very well.” She stomped toward the window and opened it. “If you do not release me, I…” She made a gagging sound. “I will…”

She couldn’t finish her sentence because of the oath she had taken when she became an Aes Sedai. He could feel that she was bluffing through the bond, too, but just to be safe he ordered her not to jump. “You will not harm yourself in any way.” Toveine screamed in frustration. “Shut up!” She did, however reluctantly. “Close the window.” She did that, too. She didn’t have a choice. He could read the murder in her eyes.

This was a situation that he had _not_ anticipated. How could he have? What was he supposed to do now? Tell Taim?

No. If Taim knew that Toveine was threatening to commit suicide because of what they’d done, he would never so much as talk to Natael again. Natael would not lose a night’s sleep if Toveine somehow managed to kill herself despite his orders, but Taim was another matter entirely.

“You will never discuss what just happened with M’Hael,” he said softly. “Is that clear?” Toveine gave him the tiniest nod in response. Her fists were balled tightly at her sides. “Now return to your room and stay there until further notice. I need to think.”

What he needed was a drink, but he had to keep a clear head. Seizing _saidin_ , he opened a gateway.

* * *

It was Gabrelle who opened the door. She was fully dressed, but her hair was somewhat untidy. “Ghraem.” She always greeted him politely, unlike…well, everyone else.

“Gabrelle Sedai, I must speak with Logain. In private, if you will.” Logain could have simply ordered her to leave, but Natael believed in asking nicely – at least to begin with. Gabrelle had a good head on her shoulders. She may be manipulating Logain by sleeping with him, but as long as Logain was aware of it, it should pose no problem. Natael suspected that he enjoyed being manipulated in this fashion.

She nodded. “I will be in your palace when you’re done, Ghraem. I'll stay with my Brown sisters.” She knew that she couldn’t wander the grounds without an escort. Logain had perhaps forbidden her to do it, or he trusted her not to. Either way, she was out of the room.

Natael stepped inside and found Logain seated at his desk. “Something wrong?” he asked without looking up from his papers.

“Yes. Quite wrong,” Natael said without preamble.

Logain stood up and sat on the desk, a frown marring his handsome face. “What? Does Elayne know about the Aes Sedai?”

Natael shook his head. Logain had not offered him a seat, but he rarely remembered to do that. He sat down on the unmade bed. “Toveine is the problem.”

Logain offered him a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry you got stuck with her, Nate. I really am. She seems like a handful. I would palm her off on someone else, but I don’t trust anyone to handle her. She’s-”

“We _have_ to find someone else. I can’t be bonded to her, Logain, she’s…” He considered his next words with care. “…suicidal. She threatened to kill herself if I didn’t release her.”

Logain raised an eyebrow, but there was no alarm in his expression. “I assume you commanded her…not to do that?”

“Obviously,” he replied with some annoyance. He wasn’t _stupid_. “But this is a temporary solution. Surely you understand that. If she feels that strongly about me-”

“You could suggest that she masks the bond.”

Mask the bond? “We can do that? How?” No one had mentioned this before.

“Mm, you’ll have to ask Gabrelle. She’s the one who came up with it. She masks it when she wants to be alone with her thoughts. It’s not…completely effective, but it helps.”

Natael doubted that it would satisfy Toveine. “I’ll have Gabrelle explain it to her. But…we still need to find someone else to take the bond.”

“Why does she hate you so much?” Logain enquired. He sounded genuinely curious. “You haven’t done anything to her, have you?” A trace of suspicion. It seeped into his voice, on occasion; whenever he remembered who Natael truly was.

“Of course not, don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped. “It’s just…” His brain waved for attention. Ah, finally, an idea. “She figured out who I am. And…well, you can’t expect her to be fine with it. It would perturb anyone.”

“Yeah, that’s a problem, alright. Guess Taim will have to take over the bond.”

“No!” Natael exclaimed. Logain eyed him with some concern. “I mean…you know what Taim did. In Saldaea. And he killed some Red sisters when he escaped. She hates him, too.”

If Logain noticed that he wasn’t as eloquent as usual, he didn’t remark upon it. “Nate, there’s no one else. I told you, it was dangerous enough to raise so many men all at once to bond the Aes Sedai. We can’t risk it.”

Natael hesitated. “Can’t you do it?”

“I already have one!” he protested.

“It’s not like bonding Gabrelle has been a burden to you,” Natael pointed out. He gestured at the bed, which had obviously been more than merely slept in.

Logain opened his mouth to retort, then closed it. He stood and paced the room, muttering under his breath. Natael only caught a few choice curses.

“Fine,” he growled after he’d passed Natael about a dozen times. “I’ll bond her. But as soon as we raise a new Asha’man, he takes over for me. And he’ll take Toveine, not Gabrelle.”

“Of course.”

Logain stopped in his tracks to glare at him. “Why did you come here to ask me to do this? Couldn’t it wait until our meeting tonight?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Nate? Is there a reason why Taim should not be part of the decision process regarding this matter?”

Natael sometimes forgot that Logain was, in fact, quite intelligent. Or observant, at least. Either way, he was caught. He felt an abnormal amount of shame for lying to Logain. It was quite uncharacteristic of him. “Toveine doesn’t want to be bonded to me because of my…relationship with Taim,” he admitted.

“But if she masks it…”

“I don’t think it’ll help. It’s not the fact that she can…feel things through the bond that bothers her, or not just that. She actually said she’d rather be bonded to you, despite…Gabrelle. I think it goes deeper than that. She can’t…stand the thought of… She said it made her sick. That it was…unnatural and wrong.”

Logain was silent for a moment. “So she doesn’t know who you are, then?”

Natael shook his head. “Certainly not.” He would have felt more than revulsion through the bond, if she did. There would be fear, at the very least.

“Tell you what,” Logain said. “We’ll give that explanation to Taim, because it’s a plausible one. He doesn’t have to know the truth. He’s obviously not…comfortable with the whole thing.”

“He’ll come around,” Natael murmured. “But thank you for doing this. It’s quite the noble sacrifice.”

“Eh, it’s what I do.” He let out an exaggerate sigh, but Natael noticed that he was smiling.

* * *

“How could she possibly know who you are?” Taim demanded. The false explanation may be plausible, but it wasn’t enough to convince him.

“Well…she mentioned my accent before.”

Taim shook his head. “That’s not enough to suspect someone of being one of the Forsaken.”

Logain came to his rescue – again. “She must have overheard some of the Asha’man talking about him. We’ve told them to be discreet, but perhaps they accidentally called him by his alias within her earshot. Either that, or she was eavesdropping and they didn’t notice her. Natael has been too soft on her. The lass needs disciplining, and I’m willing to provide.” He grinned.

Natael could tell that Taim was still not quite convinced, but he decided not to argue further, possibly because, in the end, it was more convenient this way. “Very well. But are you certain that you can handle both of them?” he asked Logain. “I’d do it myself, but it seems that she’s no fonder of me than she is of Nate.”

Logain waved his concerns away. “I’ll be fine. Until we find someone else,” he hastened to add.

Taim nodded. “Call her in, then. Might as well transfer the bond now. We wouldn’t want to _torture_ her any longer than strictly necessary.”

Natael stood to go, but Logain raised a hand. “Don’t trouble yourself.” He banged against the wall behind him, which was common with Toveine’s room.

A minute later, she knocked on the door. Logain seized _saidin_ and opened it. “Get in.” Taim glanced at him, frowning, likely surprised by the coldness in Logain’s voice.

Toveine didn’t move. She was a picture of modern Aes Sedai calm and arrogance. Logain’s face turned red and he stood, perhaps to dislodge her with physical force, but Natael held him back. “Toveine, get inside. Now.”

She marched forward, but her expression didn’t change. The bond, however, told a different story. She was terrified. She probably thought that they were going to kill her, and she was intent on not showing just how scared she was. She wanted to die with dignity.

Natael wished he could let her believe that she was going to die for a moment longer, because she deserved it, but Taim spoke up. “Logain will take up your bond.” Thankfully, he didn’t say why. After all, Toveine had no idea who Natael really was. Logain and he had considered telling her, to turn the lie into an almost-truth, but they’d eventually decided against it. With luck, she’d never find out.

She grimaced, the disdain plain on her face, but the bond was flooded with waves of relief. “It’ll have to do, I suppose.”

Logain exhaled slowly. Natael imagined that he was already regretting agreeing to this. “Light help me.”

“Proceed, then,” Taim said.

“I think not,” someone else contradicted him. Demandred stepped out of the shadows like a flaming Myrddraal.

Logain almost fell off his chair. “Blood and ashes, man! How long have you been here?”

Demandred raised an eyebrow.

“He means, um, you should have warned us of your visit. We would have had a few refreshments ready,” Natael stammered. Darkness within! It was one thing to pay them a surprise visit, but how often did he conceal his presence to spy on them like this? And none of them had noticed!

Ugh, and Toveine was here. What was he thinking?

“The woman will remain bonded to Nessosin. That is an order.”

To her credit, Toveine didn’t react outwardly, except for a slight tension in her shoulders, but it was clear through the bond that she’d connected the name with another one: Asmodean. She was terrified again. She was a smart woman; if she knew who Natael was, she must have guessed that the newcomer was someone even worse, to dare give him orders.

“Why?” Logain demanded.

Oh, the impetuosity of the young. This was strike two; another outburst, and Logain would receive some form of punishment, to deter him from speaking his mind in front of the Chosen.

“Because I said so,” Demandred said, very softly. “Do no question me again.” A moment later, he had disappeared through a gateway.

The silence in the room was suffocating.

“I knew it,” Toveine whispered. “The Black Tower is a nest of Dreadlords and Darkfriends. With a name like that, what else did we expect?” She seemed to be talking to herself.

Logain rolled his eyes. “Don’t be so bloody dramatic, woman. It’s called the Black Tower because you have the White. Don’t read too much into the name.”

“Don’t be so dramatic?” she repeated, her voice more high-pitched than usual. “You’re all Forsaken!”

“Um, well, technically, they’re Dreadlords,” Natael said. “And I’m-”

“You can’t fool me, _Asmodean_. I know exactly who and what you are!”

“I don’t know why you’re so upset,” Taim said slowly. “I thought you already-”

Oh, Light have mercy. “Of course, she knew that already, prior to Demandred’s visit.” Toveine’s eyes widened at the name, despite the fact that she must have guessed who he was – or at least narrowed it down to a few For…Chosen.

Forchosen. _Sounds about right._

Thankfully, Toveine was too shocked to incriminate him further. “She’s just distraught because she didn’t know the extent of our connection to the Shadow. Perhaps we should clear the air…” He glanced at Logain for support.

“Er…yeah. Might as well. Considering what she already knows, it’s actually safer to tell her everything. Right, Taim?”

Oh, they certainly weren’t fooling _him_. “Do what you will,” he said, standing up. “I’m going to bed. Alone,” he muttered as he passed Natael on the way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re interested in the whole Elan/Joar backstory, check out my fic "Scratch your name into the fabric of this world". It’s canon to all of my Wheel of Time fanfictions.


	27. If you wanna be my lover

_Time is running out_

_That’s a lot of conditions_

_I screwed up again_

Natael knocked on the door to Taim’s bedchamber, but there was no reply. He hesitated for a few minutes. Was it better to wait for Taim to calm down, or barge in and have a serious discussion, whether Taim wanted it or not?

Natael decided that it couldn’t wait. At the risk of infuriating Taim even further, he stepped inside the room. It was plunged in total darkness, so he weaved a small ball of light to guide himself to the bed. Taim pretended to be asleep, buried under the covers, or at least he didn’t react to Natael’s presence. He wasn’t snoring, though, so Natael knew he was awake. “We should talk about it, Taim. It’s never a good idea to go to bed angry.” No response. “Please?” Nothing. Not even an exasperated grunt. Natael sat down on the bed. “Come on, I know you’re not asleep.” He put a hand on the pile of sheets under which Taim lay.

“Go away,” he finally muttered.

Ah, progress. He was acknowledging Natael’s existence. “Look, I was just-“

Taim sat up, throwing off some of the blankets. “You lied to me! What’s worse, you lied to me _and_ you involved Logain in your deceit.”

“I was trying to protect you!”

“I don’t need your protection!” he barked. “I need you to be honest with me. A relationship cannot be based on lies, no matter how pure your intentions!”

Natael smiled tentatively. “So you do want a relationship.”

Taim didn’t return his smile. Judging by his expression, he might never smile again. “I _did_. For a few hours, I did. I let myself believe that it was possible. But you always mess up everything, don’t you? Last night was perfect, but you just had to ruin it, mere hours later.”

_Last night was perfect._

Natael fumbled for more excuses. It couldn’t end like this, before it even had a chance to begin. “Toveine is vile, Taim. She despises us, not because we swore an oath to the Shadow, but because we spent the night together.” To be fair, now that she knew about the Shadow thing, she probably despised them for that, also. “I didn’t want you to find out because…you’re having trouble with this as it is and I…I was afraid it would dissuade you forever. I didn’t want to jeopardise what we have – what we _could_ have – on account of one biased Aes Sedai.”

There was a long pause. Natael hated long pauses in serious conversations. He wished Taim would just speak his mind without thinking about it too much. Maybe he should have brought wine. Taim was more candid when he was inebriated. The problem was that he usually forgot everything he'd said the next day – especially the nice things.

“I already knew that she was vile,” Taim said eventually. Natael breathed out in relief. “She’s an Aes Sedai, and a bloody Red at that.”

“Yes, well, even by Red Ajah standards, she’s awful.” He chuckled. “Even by _Chosen_ standards, she’s awful. None of them feel that way toward people like us. In fact, some of them _are_ like us.” Rahvin and Graendal lusted for men and women alike. Mesaana enjoyed the company of women exclusively, as did Moghedien. And Elan…well, he didn’t lust for anyone nowadays, but he used to prefer men to women.

“I’m not sure I like that comparison,” Taim noted.

“All I’m saying is, we shouldn’t care what anyone thinks. And I shouldn’t have lied to you. It put too much credit to Toveine’s hateful beliefs.” He put a hand on Taim’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

Taim sighed. “That’s a start.” Then he added: “Just get under the covers. I’m too tired to be mad at you. I need to sleep.”

Natael was happy to comply. He snuffed out the _saidin_ -woven light, lifted the covers, lay down behind Taim and held him close. Before a minute had gone by, Taim’s breathing had slowed and he started snoring lightly, as he always did. Natael wasn’t tired – or rather he was, but his mind was too encumbered to shut down.

The discussion they were supposed to have regarding their future together had been curt short, in light of recent events, but Taim would want to have a serious talk the next day, certainly. He said he was too tired to be angry, but what would happen when he awakened fully rested? Would his anger be renewed, perhaps stronger than before? Would Natael have to apologise again? He would if he had to. He would do anything to give this – whatever it was – a chance to work out. Toveine’s behaviour had made him realise just how much he was willing to do for Taim. He would have killed her, had it come to that. He still might. Now that he was stuck with her indefinitely, he might indeed.

Why did Demandred insist that she remain bonded to Natael? Why did it matter? Was it merely a casual form of torture, designed for both Toveine and himself?

And how long had Demandred been in the room, before he revealed himself? Did he spy on their meetings every evening? Did he spy on…other things? Surely he had more important matters to attend to but, regardless, they would have to be even more cautious from now on.

The door opened. Natael looked up, frowning, but it was too dark to see anything. Who dared…?! Then he chided himself. A servant, most likely, here to clean the hearth or pick up Taim’s dirty laundry. They should have knocked, at least, regardless of the hour, but Natael let it go. It didn’t matter. They had not interrupted anything important.

“Wake up,” someone murmured.

Not a servant after all; Natael recognised Atal’s voice. He let go of Taim and shifted in the bed. “What are you doing here?”

“I have a message from the Master.”

Now that he was not one of the Chosen anymore, Natael realised just how ridiculous that sounded. “What now?” Demandred had already given them orders. What could he possibly want at this time of night?

“The Master just received confirmation that the Myrddraal will be here in a few days. You must be prepared to begin the Turning process as soon as they arrive. The Master will be here for a demonstration. The bonded Aes Sedai will be the first to be transcended.”

Transcended? Did the lad even know what Turning _was_? Even if he didn’t, he should be clued in by the presence of the Myrddraal. “A demonstration?” Natael repeated feebly. He knew exactly what Atal meant, but he had not expected this to happen so soon. Demandred was ahead of schedule. Perhaps on purpose.

“The Master wishes to witness the transformation of a few witches,” Atal clarified unnecessarily. “After they’ve been Turned, they will assist us in the process of Turning the lowlier men.”

“Um…very well.” What else could he possibly say? No, thank you? At the very least, it would make Atal go away. Him being here in Taim’s room was extremely awkward.

Atal made no sign of leaving. “I can’t believe you lured M’Hael into your bed.” Technically, it was Taim’s bed, but Natael had done the luring, alright. “The madness must have taken hold of his senses. I wonder how he’ll react, when you inevitably push him away and break his heart.”

“I’m not going to-”

“Does he know what a selfish bastard you are? Does he understand that you’ll leave him as soon as you sniff out a better opportunity?”

“I won’t-”

“You may tell yourself that you won’t. We lie best when we lie to ourselves, don’t we? But when things really go tits-up, you’ll be out of here before anyone can say ‘coward’.”

Natael figured out the meaning of “tits-up” from context, though he’d never heard that colourful idiom before. “If I wanted to leave, I would have done so already,” he growled.

He couldn’t see Atal, but he could almost hear him sneer. “We’ll see. I’ve already placed my bets… Nighty-night, lover.”

He exited the room without a sound, leaving Natael to consider the best way to murder him. And the consequences of such an act. How cross would Demandred be? What punishment was Natael willing to suffer for the pleasure of wringing the neck of that weaselly-

“I do know that you’re a selfish bastard,” Taim said in a sleepy voice. “I know what I’m getting myself into.”

Natael turned his head. He hadn’t realised that he was awake. “Did you hear everything he said?”

“Mm-mm. Talk about it in the morning. Sleep now.” Natael closed his eyes. There was silence for a moment, but silence meant that Taim was still awake. “Move closer, I’m cold.”

Once again, Natael was happy to oblige. This time, he fell asleep before Taim began to snore.

* * *

“Well, it makes sense,” Logain said the next evening. “Demandred couldn’t have said _that_ in front of Toveine. She would have panicked.”

Natael wished that the meeting was over, though it had only just started. He really wanted to talk to Taim alone. There had not been an opportunity that day, and their morning had been rudely interrupted by a recruit gone mad. It was barely dawn when Natael had stumbled out of bed to fetch a vial of asping rot poison. Taim and Logain had dealt with everything else: coordinating efforts to put out fires, Healing the few injured, comforting the madman’s loved ones – a wife and three young daughters. Thankfully, Logain was good at that sort of things, because it was not Taim’s cup of tea.

“Couldn’t he? He had no problem showing up in the middle of our meeting and revealing my identity.”

“Perhaps Demandred believed that she knew already,” Taim said with feigned casualness. He pretended to examine his nails.

Yeah, he was still angry about Natael’s lie, apparently. “Mmph.”

“Whatever his reasons,” Logain said, without a care for the sudden tension in the room, “the moment we’ve been dreading is upon us, sooner than anticipated. We’re pressed for time. We need to devise a plan tonight.”

Natael scanned the room reflexively before speaking. They’d checked it for intruders, it was fully illuminated and there were Power-woven wards in place, but one could never be too careful. “We have to warn al’Thor,” he said. “It’s our only chance. We could attempt to ambush Demandred, the day of the…demonstration, but it’s risky. Too risky, if you ask me. And even if we succeeded, we’d have Moridin to deal with, afterwards. If we somehow manage to kill Demandred, the Great Lord shall be very cross.”

“And we’d reveal ourselves as enemies of the Shadow,” Logain added. “ _And_ Taim and I would be acting against our oaths. It might kill us.”

“We’re likely to die either way,” Natael said fatalistically.

Taim didn’t look quite as concerned as Natael felt. “Now does seem like a good time to involve al’Thor. But we must remain discreet about it. We’ll have to take a gamble whatever we do, so let me suggest this: Logain will leave the Tower, and-”

Logain stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”

Natael was surprised, too, but mainly because Taim had called him Logain. He’d never done that before.

“Let me finish,” Taim commanded. “You leave the Tower with half of the Asha’man and all of the Aes Sedai. The men will have to bond two instead of one, but that’s a necessary burden.”

“I don’t see where you’re going with this,” Logain said. “It makes no sense. Demandred is bound to-”

Taim gestured for him to be silent. “We’ll fake a rivalry between us. Between you and I,” he clarified. “Thanks to his own experience, Demandred will not question it. Why, anyone would _expect_ it. We’re both immensely powerful, former False Dragons, now rival Dreadlords…and prideful. It irks you that you’re not our equal, but the men have taken a liking to you and see you as a leader. Your arrival has disrupted our ranks and divided the loyalty of the men.”

Was he building on his story, or merely listing facts? Natael wasn’t sure. Some of the men did seem to consider Logain the third – and unofficial – leader of the Black Tower. Because he’d been Healed after being gentled, many recruits sort of…worshipped him, for no good reason – if they should worship anyone, it ought to be the woman responsible for the Healing. Or did they admire him because he’d escaped the Aes Sedai? Either way, despite their devotion for Logain, the men still respected M’Hael. Their loyalty wasn’t divided. It went to both of them.

“A plausible lie,” Logain said. “But you saw right through ours, last night; what makes you think Demandred will be so ready to believe this? Especially given how convenient it is that the Aes Sedai will be safely out of reach right after he ordered us to Turn them.”

“But that’s the beauty of it: you left precisely because of that,” Taim said with the hint of a smug smile. “We argued about it after we relayed Atal’s message and you decided to leave with the witches… Not to save them, but because you want to keep them to yourself. For your own army. Perhaps you still believe yourself to be the true Dragon Reborn… Or you want to make your mark as an independent Dreadlord, in the hope of becoming one of the Forsaken. It’s up to you.”

“Good thinking, especially that last option. With that many women, you could form a rather large circle,” Natael mused. “It is something any powerful and ambitious Dreadlord would-”

He stopped talking when he realised that the other two were giving him their “huh?” faces. “You don’t know what a circle is, do you?”

“Nope,” Logain replied. Unlike Taim, he had no trouble displaying the extent of his ignorance.

“Perhaps we do, but under another name,” Taim said. Unlike Logain, he refused to acknowledge the fact that he didn’t know everything better than everyone else.

How adorable. “A link?” Natael supplied. Logain shook his head. Taim didn’t commit to a response, but his lips tightened, betraying his frustration. “Women can link together to form a circle. Thus linked, they can channel with more strength, though it has several limitations. Only one of the women can weave. Up to thirteen women can form a circle, but if you add male channelers to it, it can grow and become even stronger. With the right proportion of female and male channelers, one can form what we call a full circle.”

Logain’s eyes shone with interest. “How many-”

But Natael had anticipated the question. “Seventy-two. But it requires more women than men. Fifty wouldn’t be enough, I think. I don’t remember exactly.”

“Did it never occur to you to tell us that it was possible to do such a thing?” Taim demanded.

“I honestly thought you knew!” he protested. _You ignoramuses,_ he wanted to add. He didn’t dare risk angering Taim further, though. “Since we didn’t have any female channelers at our disposal until recently, the subject never came up. Men alone cannot link.”

“That’s hardly fair,” Logain grumbled.

“I don’t make the rules.”

“That’s all well and good, but we’re digressing,” Taim said. “Let’s say that Logain wants the Aes Sedai all to himself so he can form his own private army and perhaps generate a full circle.” Logain and Natael nodded. “You will leave the Tower, find al’Thor, explain precisely what’s going on here and request his assistance to rid us of the Forsaken. Of Demandred, at least. The women will be safe, some of our men, too and, more importantly, so will you.” Natael frowned at that. “At least one of us ought to be alive for the Last Battle,” Taim clarified. “I doubt that Demandred will waste time and resources to find Logain when he has us at his disposal.”

“He might kill us as punishment for letting Logain go, though,” Natael pointed out.

“I doubt he will kill either of us, not now. He needs us. He cannot manage whatever land he’s infiltrated _and_ the Black Tower at the same time.”

_Wrong_ , Natael thought. _He needs someone to be in charge here, but it doesn’t have to be us. It could be Atal. It could be any Dreadlord._

Logain leaned forward. “You’re being unrealistically optimistic, but be that as it may. How do you explain that I bonded the other half of the Aes Sedai?”

A very good question. Natael turned to Taim for the solution.

“You…staged a coup…” Taim said slowly. Oh, pity. He had not thought of everything. How disappointing. “You threatened to kill…our men’s loved ones if they didn’t surrender their Aes Sedai to your men.” He allowed himself a smug half-smile for coming up with that on the cuff.

“And when Demandred questions his multiple minions and realises that there was no coup?”

“We could stage a mock coup,” he retorted, the smile dying on his lips. Taim never welcomed criticism, even if it was constructive. “We’d warn everyone of what’s coming and plan it so that there are no casualties.”

“You’d have to warn the entire Tower, Taim,” Logain said. “Including Demandred’s people.”

“Not necessarily-”

“Yes, necessarily,” Natael said. “Otherwise any young recruit who witnesses the scene would play the hero and attempt to stop Logain and his men. There are bound to be casualties. And if we warn everyone, Demandred will know what we’re planning. _And_ everyone will know about the Aes Sedai. It just won’t work.”

“Half of the Aes Sedai must remain here, if Demandred is to believe your story,” Logain said. “I will leave in the dead of night with twenty-five men and their bondmates. We’ll incapacitate the guards and anyone who questions us on the way out, if necessary. That will give our story some substance.”

“But what about the remaining Aes Sedai?” Taim insisted. “There has to be a way to protect them…”

How strange to hear Taim say that. He despised the witches but, not unlike al’Thor, he was overly protective of women in general. “They can swear the oath,” Natael said. “Like Logain did. Like _you_ did. At least they won’t be Turned. I still think we can reverse it, eventually.” He eyed Logain when he said that, but the man ignored him.

“It’s the best we can do on such short notice,” Logain concurred. “But will they agree to it?”

Natael was tired of saying this, but it was still an accurate statement. “They don’t have a choice.” Well, technically, they did, but surely they were intelligent enough to understand which option was best for them. Which option would keep them alive until they could return to the Light.

“More importantly,” Taim said, “will Demandred agree to this?”

“Why wouldn’t he? A Dreadlord or Black Ajah sister is better than a mindless puppet.”

Taim regarded him, his dark eyes boring into his very soul and exposing the darkness within. “If you say so… I suppose you would know.”

“I’ve never Turned anyone!” It was true...but he'd done some equally horrifying things, so it was best not to pursue this argument.

Taim had the same thought. He turned to Logain. “That leaves one small issue.”

“What’s that?”

“Demandred might not believe our story for one very specific reason. Because of Atal, he knows how often we meet, and the lad has never seen us argue. No one has. We’ve had disagreements, of course, but never in public.”

“You want us to simulate arguments out in the streets?” Logain asked, a somewhat bewildered expression on his handsome face.

“And perhaps a physical fight,” Taim added. “Nothing wild, just…some pushing around, a few harmless punches…” His eyes were oddly bright when he spoke, and Natael could have sworn that he was resisting the urge to smile. “On the day before you leave.”

Incongruous as it sounded, it was actually a good idea. Not everyone would witness the scene, but the entire Black Tower would hear of it before sunset. And, as Taim had pointed out earlier, people _expected_ them to be rivals. Frankly, he was astounded that they were civil around each other most of the time.

Logain scratched his beard. “Well...if you insist.” He grinned then, and Taim finally allowed himself to smirk.

Natael had no idea if they were friends or if their supposedly made-up rivalry was real and concealed under layers of decorum out of sheer necessity. Either way, he hoped they wouldn’t end up like Lews Therin and Demandred, because that was how _their_ ugly rivalry had started. An unlikely friendship between two very different people, an amicable sense of competition…and then obsessive jealousy, full-blown hatred and a surprise volte-face which had prolonged the War of Power and thus affected all of mankind. Which still affected mankind to this day, in fact.

A few minutes later, they wrapped up the meeting and Logain bid them good night. Natael lingered in Taim’s study, nursing his wine, while Taim wrote today’s report. Would he want to talk now? Was he too tired? Would he refuse to talk altogether? Had he given up on Natael?

_Whoa, easy there. Let's not jump to conclusions._ "Um, Taim... When you're done with this, can we talk about-"

“It’s simple enough, Nate,” Taim said without looking up. Natael moved closer. “I’m willing to give this – to give _us_ – a trial run. No public displays. No mention of it to anyone else. Ablar will be gone soon enough, anyway.” There was an unmistakable trace of satisfaction in his voice and Natael noticed that he was back to calling him Ablar. “You have to take this seriously. No more joking around. And quit ogling the recruits.”

“I don’t-”

Taim finally turned his head toward him. “You do. Atal, Narishma, even Ablar…it has to stop. It’s immature and vulgar, for one thing, and for another I don’t like it.”

Natael had a hard time keeping a straight face, though it was a sensible argument, he supposed. “Fine. No ogling.” No ogling men, anyway. Taim hadn’t said anything about women.

_You idiot. He’s right to call you immature. You_ have _to take this seriously, otherwise you’ll lose him._

“You will keep on calling me Taim or M’Hael,” he went on. “No ridiculous pet names.”

He shouldn’t have said that. It had never even occurred Natael that he could use a pet name for Taim, but now that was all he could think about. “What about Mazrim?”

“No one calls me that,” Taim snapped. “And you won’t, either. Ever.”

“Fair enough.” It felt weird, anyway. He would have to think of something else – once the trial run was over, of course.

Taim took a deep breath and continued in a lower voice. “You may sleep with me…but you won’t be _living_ here. Keep your clothes and frivolous belongings in your own room. And stay there during the day, if you have nowhere else to be. I need my space.”

Also fair. Natael liked to have his own space, too. “Can we sleep together every night?”

He was rewarded by a nice blush, as he’d expected. His answer was a barely-audible “yes”.

“Well, it’s dark outside, so this qualifies as the night, right?” he said with a grin.

“I have to finish my report,” Taim muttered. He returned to his paper.

“You’ve set several conditions for this trial run, but may I set a few of my own?”

Taim let his quill drop with a sigh. “I suppose.”

“From now on, I will write the daily reports, even though nobody reads them. You need more sleep than I do – why, I slept for three thousand years, didn’t I?”

Taim arched an eyebrow. “You’ll write a report tomorrow and I’ll decide if it’s adequate, before I agree to this.”

“I’m not a child, Taim. I know how to write a bloody report. I’ve written plenty, in my time.”

“Fine, fine. What else?”

“Instead of giving me the silent treatment for hours or days, you will let me know when I’ve done something wrong and we will discuss it right away. You want honesty, and so do I, but to be honest with each other, we need to communicate. Don’t let these things fester. That’s how one becomes Forsaken.”

_Chosen, blimey. Then again, does it really matter? It’s just a word._

Taim welcomed that remark with a ghostly smile. “I’ll let you know everything you’re doing wrong, fear not.”

Mm. That didn’t bode well. But it was better to be criticised until you learned than to keep screwing up until everything blew up in your face without warning. “Please do. Anything you’d like to tell me now?” Might as well get this out of the way.

“I need to know that you will stand by me. Whatever happens.”

He’d expected Taim to list his minor failings and explain how to correct them, but this was on a different level. Taim needed reassurance. He needed to know that, trial run or not, Natael was committing to the relationship. Taim wanted what Elan had never given Natael. He did not realise it, but it was also a risk for Natael to invest himself in this relationship. He’d been hurt before, and he didn’t wish to repeat the experience.

_Whatever happens._ That was a difficult promise to make indeed. _Whatever_ included of lot of potential disasters, given the current state of things.

He settled for an answer that, he knew, wouldn’t satisfy Taim. In fact, he regretted the words the moment they were out of his mouth. “I’ll try.”

It might have been better to say nothing at all.

He couldn’t quite read Taim’s face, for once. Was he disappointed? Resigned? “I said I knew what I was getting myself into,” he said softly, “but I may have spoken too soon.”

“I meant-”

Taim cut him off. “Doesn’t matter. I know I’ll regret it if I don’t give this relationship a try, and I’ll probably regret giving it a try, too, so, either way…” He shrugged and returned to his report, dipping the quill in the inkpot. “Either way, I foresee regret in my future. I’m tired of being lonely, though, so the trial run makes more sense.” He wrote down a few words. _Incident in the early morning: Soldier gone mad. Subject had to be neutralised and disposed of. Casualties: one._ “Go to bed. I’ll join you in a moment.”

Natael considered a firmer reply to Taim’s question, but it was too late. Taim wouldn’t buy it.

He had been granted a trial run, but he may have already doomed their relationship.

_No. That’s the coward’s way out, to admit defeat without putting up a fight. You know what to say to make him understand, even if you don’t like it. Honesty is key, remember?_

“Before you finish that report,” _and before I lose my nerve_ , “I need to tell you something.” He was the one who had insisted on better communication, after all. Taim groaned in annoyance, but he abandoned the quill again. “I need to explain why I’m…reluctant to make promises or to fully commit to you.” He downed his wine, but that wouldn’t be enough, not for this story. He poured himself another cup, then poured one for Taim. He would need it, too. “I need to tell you about Elan.”


	28. You make me want to be a better man

_I slept with the boss_

_Please don't hold it against me_

_This plan is madness_

“So…Elan Morin Tedronai.”

Natael nodded. Taim had not touched his wine yet, but the night was young.

“Ishamael…and you. Together.”

Perhaps he ought to feel desperate that Taim was having trouble digesting the news or forming full sentences, but all he felt was relief. The cat was out of the bag, as they said in this Age. Whatever else Taim learned about his past, it couldn’t be any worse than this. After all, he already knew about all the maiming and the tragic…incident involving Natael's mother.

“Ishamael…who is now Moridin. The Nae’blis.”

Still processing. Natael waited in silence, taking an occasional sip from his cup. He had not needed as much wine as he’d feared…but the night was young.

“I’m sorry,” Taim murmured. “I’m glad that you told me, but it’s…”

“…a lot to take in. Yes, I know. You’re handling it better than I anticipated, to tell you the truth.” He hesitated for a moment, then threw caution to the wind and took Taim’s free hand in his. Taim didn’t recoil at his touch. “If I’d listened to my old self, I would have taken this confidence to the grave, but you deserve to know. When you really think about it, you know very little of my past – except for the obvious Shadow-related facts.” He didn’t even know about Natael’s many accomplishments and awards as a musician, but that was a conversation for another day. “It seems that no one bothered to write my biography after the Breaking, and I was too young to write one myself before everything went pear-shaped.” Lews Therin, Elan and Barid Bel, among others, had authored an autobiography, but they were at least a century older than he was. Accomplished channelers commonly wrote about themselves when they were middle-aged, not before.

“You’re right. The fact that you’re Asmodean, the infamous Forsaken, tends to eclipse everything else. I never gave a thought about what your personal life was like before the Collapse. You could have been married a dozen times and have a hundred children-”

Natael chuckled. “No, don’t worry, I don’t carry that much baggage. I never wanted children and, before I met Elan, I didn’t think I could ever commit to one person for too long. My record before him was four months.”

“Four months,” Taim mused. “That’s about how long we’ve known each other.”

“Right. And I’m still here!”

At last, Taim smiled.

“Anyway. All you had to judge me by until now was my fling with Atal, which, as we all know, was a horrible, horrible mistake. I just wanted you to better understand my…reluctance, earlier, when you asked-”

“No, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have pressured you. I suggested a trial run, and then immediately demanded a steadfast commitment. It was inappropriate. We should take things more slowly.”

“No, we shouldn’t. On the contrary.” Taim scowled. “We could be dead in a week.” If they were lucky. More likely, it would be in a few days, when Demandred returned with thirteen Myrddraal. “We don’t have time to take things slowly. I will do whatever I can to make you trust me, to deserve you, not to disappoint you. I want to be worthy of you. I may only have days to succeed, but I will do my best.” He had no idea where the words came from. He’d never made such a speech before, but he was taking his own advice: _don’t think too much and say what’s on your mind_. He may never have another chance to do so. “I will not leave you. This time I’m in for the long run…however long that may be. I will be with you until the bitter end.” It would be bitter but, together, perhaps they could make it bittersweet, at least.

Taim was struggling to form a semblance of response. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. Instead of speaking, he drank some wine. Some, then all of it. “I’ve been rehearsing this conversation in my head all day, repeating to myself what I needed you to know and what I wanted to hear before I could make a decision. I wasn’t convinced before…” He’d made that clear, what with that talk of impending regret. “But this…this is what I didn’t know I needed to hear. If that makes sense.”

Natael squeezed his hand. “As much sense as a madman can make.”

* * *

“Toveine, I know how you feel about us, but you have to get over it. Your life is at stake, and that of your sisters. We need to-”

“My _sisters_ despise me. They believe I’m responsible for this…catastrophic development.”

Well, to be fair, she was. The leader of an army was always considered responsible when something went wrong. She’d led them to capture. She was following orders, true, but she had failed to reconnoitre the enemy base, which was really the basics of warfare. If she’d known just how many men were being trained at the Black Tower, and how capable they were, she would have turned around. Anyone in their right mind would have. She’d made the arrogant mistake of underestimating the enemy and stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the possibility that she may be wrong about it.

“Is there perhaps another among you whom they consider a leader?” Taim asked. Until then, he’d ignored Toveine. He was seated on the windowsill and looking down on a group of Soldiers practicing the old boulder-exploding trick under Logain’s watchful eyes. “Did you nominate a second-in-command?”

Toveine flinched when he spoke, but she didn’t glance at him. In fact, she was doing her best to pretend that neither of them were here. When she divulged information she was reluctant to pass along, she mumbled almost unintelligibly, perhaps in the hope that they wouldn’t understand her. “Gabrelle was supposed to take over if something happened to me.”

Ah, yes, Gabrelle, the unassuming Brown who was sleeping with the enemy. She was as much of a pariah as Toveine herself.

“That won’t do,” Taim said. “Is there a woman that they might look up to, perhaps someone with more experience or older than the rest?”

This time it wasn’t mere reluctance. She was fiddling with her Great Serpent ring. There was something she wasn’t telling them. “Were you really in charge, Toveine?” Natael demanded.

“Yes, I was!” She sounded defensive. “Elaida gave me command of our party.”

Ugh, he was going to have to ask exactly the right question. “Was anyone bothered by this? Someone who should be…above you?”

Her lips tightened, as if it would prevent the words from escaping her mouth. “I’m not the most powerful channeler among them.”

If Natael had not been standing next to her, he might not have heard her. Indeed, Taim left the windowsill to stand closer to them. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Is this how Aes Sedai determine their hierarchy? By their strength in the Power?” That was idiotic, but Natael had come to expect the worst of this Age. Toveine made no reply. “Answer me. And speak up, for pity’s sake.”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, that is how.” She glared at the floor as if it were its fault that she’d been forced to reveal this secret.

Natael and Taim exchanged a look. It was so arbitrary… Of course, the two of them were strongest among their recruits, but that was irrelevant; al’Thor had not designated them because of that.

“Then it’s fair to assume that the most powerful sister in your group resented Elaida’s decision to put you in charge of the expedition from the beginning,” Taim said.

Toveine nodded. “Oh, come on, just give us her name!” Natael exhorted her. “Time is not on our side.”

“Lemai is stronger than I am…”

Lemai Ambani, who was bonded to Hardlin, if Natael’s memory served. Another Red. No wonder she resented Toveine being in charge.

“There’s another one, isn’t there?” Taim asked softly. Natael gave him a quizzical look. He wasn’t bonded to the woman, but he could read her better than Natael could.

Toveine sighed. “Desandre. She is considered slightly superior to Lemai, but only because she completed her training earlier. Their strength in the Power is roughly equivalent.”

Desandre Alraed…a Yellow, Natael thought. She was bonded to Einar.

“There’s something else she’s not telling us,” Taim murmured. He circled around the Aes Sedai, hands behind his back. “Are they planning something? A coup?”

Toveine shook her head, but that wasn’t enough. “Answer with words,” Natael ordered her.

“There will be no coup anytime soon,” she said. “It would be futile.” Natael didn’t see how they could even try – they weren’t allowed to channel unless their bondmate gave them permission, and even if they could, the men would be forewarned by the bond.

Toveine finally gave in under their stares. “But Gabrelle encouraged everyone to stay united and to let Desandre and Lemai take charge. They instructed the sisters to be civil to their bondmates, until they were eventually led to believe that the Aes Sedai were subdued and could be granted some modicum of freedom.” She sniffed. “Gabrelle took that recommendation a bit too far, if you ask me.”

“Nope, no one asked you,” Natael said.

Taim ignored that last part. “Right, so they’re scheming to attempt something in the future, after they’ve lulled their bondmates into trusting them, but we’d figured that out already, thanks to Gabrelle,” Taim noted. “I mean, Logain is attractive, but she moved into his bed too fast. She isn’t fooling anyone, though Logain appreciates her efforts, no doubt about it.”

“Well then. We need to talk to Desandre and Lemai,” Natael said. Toveine had no influence at all on her sisters. She was completely useless to them, in truth, whether she served the Light or the Shadow. Demandred had to know that. So why had he insisted on keeping her bonded to Natael? More and more, he thought it was a form of torture, of punishment.

“What is going to happen to me?” Toveine questioned them.

Taim shrugged. He didn’t care one way or another; he’d told Natael last night. If not for Demandred’s orders, she would probably be dead by now. “I’ll go gather the real leaders of the Aes Sedai. Join me in my study in half an hour?”

Natael nodded. “I’ll be there, my love.”

Silence fell in the room. Taim, who had been heading for the door, turned to gawk at him, his cheeks reddening.

_Um…what did I just say? BLOOD AND ASHES, WHAT DID I JUST SAY?_

Taim seemed to be wondering the same thing. His eyebrows were trying to climb into his hair.

Even in their most intimate moments, Natael had never called him that. It had come out of nowhere, just like his short-but-intense speech the previous evening. He must be going mad. It was not that he didn’t mean it, but the timing was…unfortunate, what with Toveine being there.

He could feel her emotions through the bond, but he chose not to acknowledge them. Let her choke on her revulsion.

The silence grew oppressive. Should he say something? But what? Sorry? He was only sorry that Toveine had witnessed the scene. In other circumstances, this lapse may have been considered romantic, or at the very least adorably awkward.

After another few seconds, which felt like several hours, Taim cleared his throat. “Er, yes, good. Half an hour. I’m going now,” he announced unnecessarily. He practically ran for the door.

Toveine’s eyes followed Taim on his way out, then she turned to Natael again. Whatever she thought of what had happened, it had been replaced by a throbbing urgency that Natael could sense within the bond. “You cannot dispose of me,” she stammered. “Dem… The other Forsaken said so. And you have to obey him, do you not? For some reason, he is above you, just like Lemai is above me.”

She still believed that Natael was one of the Forsaken. Then again, they had not refuted that belief. “In a few days, your fate will be decided.”

“What happens in a few days?”

“Demandred will return.” He didn’t tell her why. First, they had to make plans with Logain and the Aes Sedai. Then they’d decide if Toveine ought to be included…or if she would become an inevitable sacrifice in their ploy to save the others.

* * *

“Toveine has explained to us how Aes Sedai work out their hierarchy. Apparently, the two of you are the most powerful of your party and the weaker channelers listen to you. Is that correct?”

Taim was seated at his desk and facing Desandre and Lemai. Since this was Taim’s study and all the chairs were occupied, Natael had the windowsill and Logain was leaning against the wall behind the desk, arms crossed over his chest. Desandre and Lemai’s bondmates were waiting outside the room.

“It is correct, Master Taim,” Desandre confirmed, her face expressionless. She had Logain’s Ghealdanin accent, Natael noted. He wondered what she thought of the man – a False Dragon, a reborn channeler, Gabrelle’s bondmate _and_ bedmate. Toveine loathed Taim and didn’t try to conceal it, but Desandre had barely spared Logain a glance.

What _did_ the White Tower Aes Sedai make of Logain? Had they heard that he’d been Healed? At least a few of them must have known him, while he was their captive in Tar Valon. They knew he’d been properly gentled. They may even have participated in the gentling.

It wasn’t relevant to the present matter, but Natael was curious. Perhaps he’d enquire another time.

“When we captured you, we assured you that we would do our best to keep you comfortable, and we swore that no harm would come to you,” Taim went on.

Desandre nodded. “And you have been true to your word, thus far.” Lemai had yet to utter a single sound or make the tiniest gesture. She sat so still that she could have been a statue. Did she even blink?

“Well, it’s about to change.”

Finally, a sign of life: Lemai arched an eyebrow. She didn’t say anything, though. That was Desandre’s job. “I assume that you intend to elaborate.” Even following Taim’s ominous statement, her face betrayed no emotion. Natael wondered if Einar felt something through the bond.

“We genuinely mean you no harm,” Taim explained. “We took you captive and bonded you because we were following orders.” That first sentence was a bald-faced lie. Had it been his decision, Taim would have annihilated their party and shown little remorse afterwards, knowing that they had similar intentions regarding the Black Tower.

“The Dragon Reborn ordered you to bond us?” Desandre asked. “That is, provided that you take your orders from him…”

There might be no need for a long-winded explanation, Natael realised. She seemed to have guessed that al’Thor had little influence over the Black Tower. Well, it was hardly a secret.

“That particular directive came from the Forsaken Demandred,” Taim said.

Blood and ashes, they were good Aes Sedai. Lemai briefly touched her Great Serpent ring, but Desandre’s face was a mask. Elaida should have put these two in charge from the start.

“Are we to deduce that the Black Tower is under the control of the Shadow?” the Yellow said.

Taim didn’t hesitate. “The Shadow certainly thinks it is.”

“A bold statement,” Desandre noted. Natael silently agreed. “Are you not a Dreadlord?”

“Technically, yes,” Taim conceded, “Logain and I are Dreadlords.”

Desandre politely indicated Natael. “What about him?”

“Ghraem is not a Dreadlord,” Taim said. He didn’t expound on the matter. “We decided to become Dreadlords of our own free will because it was preferable to the alternative,” he continued.

“Death?”

“Turning.”

Ah, that did provoke some reaction, which gave them a semblance of humanity. Desandre’s brown eyes widened in horror and Lemai once again touched her ring, muttering under her breath, eyes closed.

“Although that is essentially the same thing,” Taim said. “Anyway, I’m afraid that you will soon be faced with the same choice…which is not a real choice, as I’m sure you understand.”

Desandre remained silent. Lemai’s eyes were still closed, her head slightly bowed, as if she were praying.

“Some of you will have to become Black Ajah in order to survive,” Taim said. “There is no other way.”

“ _Some_ of us?” Desandre repeated. She didn’t sound so calm now, and she’d paled visibly.

“The rest will be leaving with me,” Logain announced. “Half of you will be spared the Oath Rod, but the ones who stay here must willingly turn to the Shadow…to avoid being Turned to the Shadow.”

Aw, he was using their infallible argument! Perhaps he finally saw the sense in it.

“Why can’t we all leave with you?”

Logain quickly resumed the situation, and why it was important that Demandred believed he’d left the Tower for all the wrong reasons. Trusting Lemai and Desandre to be unaffiliated to the Shadow in any way was a risk, but they had no choice. “Believe me, picking out the men who will follow me has been a quandary. At least you won’t have to make _that_ choice.”

The Aes Sedai looked at each other. Eventually, Lemai nodded and Desandre returned her attention to Logain. Did they communicate via telepathy? Women sometimes seemed to be able to do that. “Are we part of the-”

“We thought it best to separate you,” Logain explained, “so that each group of women will have a leader. Lemai, you will be leaving with me. Desandre, you’ll be in charge of the soon-to-be Black Ajah sisters.”

Silence followed that statement.

“I choose death,” Desandre whispered after a moment. Her eyes shone with intensity. "Death on my own terms."

Natael chuckled uneasily. “Now, now, don’t be so dramatic. The good news is that the oath you will swear to Demandred is reversible. As soon as we can obtain a Binding Rod, you will be released-”

“And when will that be, Ghraem?”

“Well, we don’t know yet, but with you on our side, it may be easier than we thought. There’s one at the White Tower, is there not?” No one replied, so he forged ahead. “You could borrow it somehow, and then-”

“Elaida will not allow us to return to the Tower,” Desandre said harshly. “Not after we’ve been captured. We’re tainted now.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Taim barked. “The taint is not contagious, burn you!”

“I meant that no one will _trust_ us, you fool, not after we’ve spent so much time here, and especially if they find out that we've been bonded. Elaida will have us stilled and executed for our failure, if we ever set foot on Tower ground again.”

That was a good point. By all accounts, Elaida was not entirely sane herself. “Regardless, there are other Binding Rods out there...”

“And while you search for one, likely in vain, what will happen?” Desandre insisted.

Natael frowned. “What do you mean?”

“We know of this process you name Turning, Ghraem. We know that you require women to Turn men, and vice versa.”

“’Require’ is a strong word,” he muttered. "It can be accomplished with any thirteen channelers."

“But it renders the process easier, does it not?” He nodded reluctantly. “And is it not logical and rational to suspect that you will make use of us to that end? To assume that Demandred will ultimately demand that you Turn every unwilling Black Tower recruit to the Shadow before the Last Battle?”

What was she, a bloody White? “That’s the idea. But we won’t allow it!”

“How will you prevent it?” she countered. “Some men will refuse to take the oath, no matter what you say. What will you do with them? Send them away, like Logain? Will this trick work more than once, do you think?”

It wouldn’t. They’d be lucky if Demandred bought it this one time.

“I choose death,” Desandre repeated. “I’m a _Yellow_ , Ghraem. It is my Light-given mission in this life to _Heal_ people, not to poison their souls.”

“Why don’t you fight him?” Lemai looked up at all three men in turn.

Well, well. Look who was talking now.

“Him…Demandred?” Logain asked.

Lemai nodded. “You have fifty loyal Asha’man at your disposal,” she said, “and fifty of us. We may not be loyal to you by choice, and I disapprove of your methods, whatever your true intentions, but, ultimately, we do serve the Light, all of us. Against those odds, even one of the Forsaken doesn’t stand a chance, I should think.”

“Yes, we’ve considered that possibility,” Taim said, “but Demandred is only one of them, and he answers to his own leader, the Nae’blis, who is none else but Ishamael reborn.” That brought on its own set of minuscule but very human-like reactions.

“We _could_ kill Demandred,” Natael said, “but we would incur the wrath of the Dark One himself. He’d send every remaining Forsaken against us, and our punishment wouldn’t be plain old death. It would be much worse than that. Semirhage is still alive, according to our latest reports.”

“ _And_ ,” Logain added, “apparently the Dark One can bring back dead people now. Demandred’s death would be but a temporary respite.”

Well, they could balefire him…but balefire was dangerous. Even the Chosen were reluctant to use it.

Lemai had more arguments, though. “You have hundreds of channelers here. You have fifty Aes Sedai who can link. The Dragon Reborn himself is supposedly on your side. We can withstand anything, if we’re united. Besides, why would the Shadow waste pawns to destroy us, when the Last Battle is coming? Surely, when this...Nae'blis realises that the entire Black Tower has rebelled against the Shadow, he'll admit defeat and move on.”

“She does have a point,” Logain remarked. “All of our Asha’man are already aware of the situation. Once the Aes Sedai are in the know, we could team up and get rid of Demandred once and for all. And we’ll do Moridin in if he shows up.”

“Sure, and why not take the fight directly to Shayol Ghul, while you’re at it? Feel like taking on the Great Lord with your bare fists?” Natael said with a smirk. Had Logain gone mad? That was _not_ the plan!

“You’re one of _them_ , aren’t you?” Desandre asked quietly. “You’re a Forsaken.”

Natael blinked at the unexpected question. “What? No, I’m… Why would you think that?”

“You’re the only person I’ve ever encountered who calls him the Great Lord,” Desandre pointed out. “We servants of the Light prefer the term ‘Dark One’.”

Darkness within! He’d slipped again. “Alright, fine. I _used_ to be one of them.”

“Asmodean,” Desandre said. It wasn’t a question. Well, by process of elimination, it was easy to determine his identity.

“Yes, but now I’m really just Ghraem. I haven’t even-” _Taken the oath_ , he was about to say. But it was best to keep that information to himself.

“This is neither here nor there,” Taim interrupted. “We should discuss the pros and cons of Lemai’s suggestion.”

Natael stared at him in shock. He was willing to consider this? “You can’t be serious!”

Taim slowly massaged his temples. “Aren’t you tired of pretending? Demandred is always three steps ahead of us, but I doubt he’ll see _this_ coming. The idea has merit, mainly thanks to the element of surprise from which we can benefit.”

“He always comes alone,” Logain said. “I wouldn’t dare underestimate him, even with such overwhelming odds in our favour, but you have to admit that it’s…feasible.”

“Of course it is _feasible_ ,” Natael snapped. “That’s not the issue! The consequences-”

“We’ll deal with the consequences,” Taim said quietly. “Why, we’ve dealt with the consequences of every stupid decision we’ve made so far, haven’t we? If nothing else, we know how to improvise.”

“This is pure madness,” Natael murmured.

Logain chuckled. “Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later, mm? Come on, Nate, don’t be such a killjoy. Let us all be mad together.”

Taim smiled as his eyes sought Natael’s. “Yes, my love. Let’s.”

How could he say no to that?


	29. Why make a mess when a total catastrophe would do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads-up: this chapter gets dark (and it's super long).
> 
> TW: mention of suicide.

_Black Tower: zero_

_Demandred: I stopped counting_

_But wait, it gets worse_

Natael was looking out the window at Logain’s departing silhouette. The guards at the gate didn’t try to stop him. There were only twenty people in his party; after a long discussion and hours of planning with Desandre and Lemai, they’d decided that it would be safer for most of the Asha’man and Aes Sedai to remain here at the Black Tower, considering what they intended to do. Logain had not wanted to leave at all, but someone had to talk to al’Thor.

“He’s gone,” he told Taim, who lingered in bed.

“Good. Everything is going according to plan.”

So far, yes. But this was only the beginning. Convincing the Black Tower that Logain and Taim were at odds was the easy part.

“Tomorrow I’ll announce that Logain went on a recruiting trip, and everyone will know that I’m lying to cover up the fact that he left because we fought.”

Some pushing around, a few harmless punches… That was how Taim had described it when he’d first mentioned it. He’d ended up trying to choke Logain with his bare hands, and in return Logain had broken Taim’s nose. And the things they’d yelled at each other… There was some pent-up rivalry between them, alright.

But Logain had not left angry. He was satisfied that everyone believed the fight had been an actual one, and not in the least staged – which, in the end, was the case. Still, when they’d met in Taim’s study a few hours later, both men had laughed and complimented the other’s injuries, though they were Healed by then. “Ugh, men,” Natael had muttered, since there was no woman in the vicinity to utter the timeless remark and to roll her eyes with long-suffering fondness.

“Come back to bed,” Taim murmured. “This may very well be our last night together and I don’t want to waste a single minute.”

“Demandred didn’t tell us exactly when he would return,” Natael noted, though he obediently joined Taim under the covers. “A few days, Atal said.”

“I forbid you to mention either name when we’re in bed,” Taim said. “It’s not conducive to a good night’s rest. Or to…other things.”

They spent some time doing those other things, but Taim was exhausted and fell asleep soon afterward. Natael watched him sleep for a while. Could it really be their last night together? He didn’t want to think that. They’d had so little time…

Just as he was following Taim into slumber, there was a loud knock on the door. Natael was up in a second and, after hastily tying his robe, he opened the door while Taim rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

It was Atal. He leered unpleasantly. “The Master wants you to be ready for the demonstration in half an hour. Don’t be late.”

He disappeared in a gateway before Natael could respond.

“It’s the middle of the bloody night!” Taim complained. “Why does Demandred always show up so early or so late?”

“I suspect it’s because he has settled in a land where the sun sets at a different time than it does here,” Natael said absent-mindedly.

“Seanchan?” Taim mused.

“Perhaps – far to the East, or far to the West. Either way, we’re lucky that Logain didn’t delay his departure even by an hour. Come on, we better get dressed. We want to look our best for…” Our own funeral? Demandred’s? “…whatever’s to come.”

* * *

They assembled in Natael’s ballroom. Yes, there was a ballroom in his palace – a good thing, too, because it was the only indoors room that could hold so many people: forty Aes Sedai and their bondmates, plus Toveine, Taim and Natael. They all awaited Demandred’s arrival with various signs of agitation. They all knew the plan, except Atal, the only agent of the Shadow they knew of. His bondmate, Gylli, a short sister of the Yellow Ajah with luminous green eyes, was supposed to keep out of the circles, so as not to alert Atal.

There were going to be three circles. Taim, Toveine and Natael would link, with Taim in control. Desandre would form a circle of thirteen women and some of their bondmates and she would lead it. Adrielle Sedai of the Gray Ajah, Mezar’s bondmate, would lead the last circle, which would include the rest of the women, all weaker channelers, with a few men thrown in. The rest of the Asha’man would provide personal wards for the leaders of the circles, in priority, and deal with the Myrddraal while the circles primarily targeted Demandred.

Natael didn’t think it could go wrong. Demandred always came alone, and the thirteen Myrddraal didn’t stand a chance. Besides, the Chosen couldn’t possibly expect this. The Aes Sedai had been warned just now, at the last minute, as planned, so that even if there were Black Ajah sisters among them, they could not relay the information in time. They had operated the same way with the Asha’man, just in case. Only Desandre and Lemai could have betrayed them, but Natael had a good feeling about them.

He hoped he was right. Their lives literally depended on it.

They wouldn’t give Demandred a chance to find his bearings, either. The moment he came out of the gateway, they would balefire him.

Natael didn’t like to toy with the deadly weave, but Taim had eventually convinced him. If they didn’t use it, Demandred would return, and he’d be angrier than ever, especially if he ended with a body that was not to his liking. Natael briefly imagined Barid’s horror if he was somehow returned to this world inside Lews Therin’s old body… Of course, that body had become part of a mountain, but the Great Lord must have an assortment of look-alikes precisely in case Demandred died a non-permanent death. The Great Lord could be a real jerk and he had a perverted sense of humour.

Yes, Natael was fairly confident in their chances. They had thought of everything, had they not?

It was too late, anyway. A gateway had appeared.

Myrddraal came pouring out of it. The channelers waited – they had to hit Demandred first.

And here he was, looking quite majestic in a white shirt, black trousers and a deep blue velvet coat. Great clothes to die in, Natael thought just as everyone seized the Source and linked. They hadn’t had a chance to practice, but they came together smoothly. Taim used balefire before Demandred could do or say anything.

The blinding beam of destructive light went _through_ Demandred. The wall behind him vanished, revealing part of the main hall. The Chosen rolled his eyes then glanced down at the spot where the weave should have hit and disintegrated him.

Everyone was staring at him in shock, but Taim recovered quickly, just like Desandre. They liberally attacked with weaves of all elements. Demandred remained unscathed.

It wasn’t a ward, Natael thought. A ward would have repelled their weaves. It was almost as if…

As if Demandred wasn’t there at all.

“It’s a projection,” he murmured. One of the most complex weaves in existence, and difficult to maintain. Indeed, Demandred flickered for an instant.

“You actually did it,” the projection said when the channelers ceased fire. “You tried to kill me. Your stupidity never ceases to amaze me.” The voice broke in places and Demandred flickered again.

_He’s always three steps ahead._

They were going to die, Natael realised. This night had been their last, just as Taim had predicted. He fumbled blindly for Taim’s hand and squeezed tightly when he found it. Taim nearly crushed his fingers in return.

_Please, kill me first._ That was a horribly selfish wish, but he couldn’t bear to see Taim die before him, even if he outlived him only for a second.

“Unlink now, and I will consider giving you a second chance,” the projection said. “Or is it your third already? I’ve lost count.”

That had to be a lie. He couldn’t let them live after such a rebellious move.

Desandre shouted wordlessly and threw her hands toward the Myrddraal. Three of them exploded, but the rest remained immobile.

Demandred shrugged. “Eh, I have spares. Atal?”

Natael turned to look for the rat, but it was too late. He was behind Desandre, knife in hand. He cut her throat wide open. The Aes Sedai who was closest to her screamed as blood spattered the right side of her face, and a few others stepped aside, their eyes wild. It was rational to assume that the link they were forming was gone.

Demandred nodded approvingly. “Adrielle?”

“As you command, Great Master,” the beautiful Gray whispered. She gestured at her sisters from the other circle and they stared at her in horror. Natael couldn’t tell what she’d done, but presumed that they’d been shielded. The rest of Adrielle’s circle moved as far from her as they could when they realised that there was a member of the Black Ajah in their midst, but they couldn’t leave the circle while Adrielle had the lead.

“Release _saidin_ , Taim,” the projection commanded. “Release it and your men will live. _You_ will live. Adrielle’s circle is more powerful than yours. She’ll kill everyone in this room, if I command it.”

Taim turned to Natael. He looked older than he did an hour ago, his eyes bright with rage, but he knew they were defeated. They had made an impossible mess of things. Demandred had once again foiled their plans, and he wasn’t even _here_.

Should they die in a blaze of glory, in an attempt to kill at least Adrielle or Atal? Or should they surrender, in the hope that their men and the Aes Sedai of more colourful Ajahs would be spared?

Taim surrendered the lead of the link to him and let go of _saidin_. Atal shielded him right away. It was Natael’s decision now. He looked at the men, at the Aes Sedai. He noticed that no one was taking any initiative; they awaited his orders. They did respect him.

The fools.

“Alright, you win,” he told the projection. He released the Source and signalled for the non-linked men to do the same.

Atal shielded him, too and, as soon as the Asha’man let go of _saidin_ , more people came out of the gateway. Men, bearing tattoos and not a lot of clothes, snarling and jeering wordlessly. There were about twenty of them…all channelers. They shielded the Asha’man. The ballroom was now quite crowded.

Natael briefly tried to figure out who these newcomers were and where they hailed from, but he honestly had no idea. Seanchan slaves, mayhap? They looked like primitives, even more uncouth than the Aiel. But the Seanchan killed men who could channel, didn’t they? They only enslaved female channelers.

Anyway. It didn’t matter at this point. Natael had to salvage something from this wreckage. “Do what you will with me, Barid. It was my idea. Don’t punish the others for it.”

The projection winked out of existence, and a few seconds later the real Demandred stepped out of the gateway. “Predictable as you are, I assume that your initial plan was to make them all swear the oath, to avoid having to Turn them.”

Natael nodded. There was no point denying it.

“You promised everyone that you’d reverse the oath as soon as you could obtain a Binding Rod, so that the sheep would get along with your ludicrous plan.”

Natael said nothing. Demandred was monologuing; their fate would be sealed when he was done pointing out their many failings and crushing their hopes and dreams.

“And I take it that Logain has left to seek exterior assistance, since you’re so clearly unfit to deal with me on your own, even when you outnumber me eighty to one.”

Blood and ashes! They had not even had a chance to lie to him about Logain. “We had no way of knowing that Adrielle was Black Ajah!” Desandre had vouched for all of her sisters – she’d actually recommended Adrielle as the lead of the last circle, because she had more experience with linking.

“Is Logain looking for Lews Therin?” Demandred went on, ignoring the last remark. Nobody replied, but he took their silence as confirmation. “Well, I wish him luck with that.” Demandred was not the sarcastic type, so it was difficult to tell if he was serious or not. Perhaps he simply didn’t care. He didn’t consider any of them a threat.

“Now. We’ve wasted enough time on social niceties, I think. Taim, pick out ten of your men. They will swear the oath tonight. Adrielle, select twelve of your sisters for the same purpose. You will Turn the rest later.” He narrowed his eyes as he surveyed Natael. “I strongly suggest that you do not send them away. There will be guards outside from now on. Any woman leaving the Tower will be balefired on sight.” Adrielle was already marching twelve Aes Sedai in front of the Chosen. Taim had not even started. Natael released his hand and gestured for him to do the same.

Just when he registered the fact that the gentlemanly thing to do to spare his lover would be to select the men himself, he realised that they didn’t need to do it. Nearly half of their Asha’man took a step forward, volunteering for the ordeal.

Oh, the fools. The loyal fools.

“Furthermore,” Demandred went on, paying no attention to the selection process, “you will no longer Travel out of the Black Tower. You won’t be able to open gateways.”

Natael scowled darkly. How was that even possible? But Demandred didn’t expand on the matter. He glanced at the men aligned in front of him. “Too many. Atal, pick ten of them.” It was done at random, as far as Natael could tell. “Good. Now form a line and listen carefully. You will all swear the same oath, and I do not intend to repeat it for each and every one of you.”

It was done in record time. The first Aes Sedai in line, a pretty White named Meline, tried to make a run for it. It was her bondmate who caught her. He whispered soothing words until she stopped sobbing. Demandred looked on impatiently. “The next one who does that will be locked up with my men for the rest of the night, and their bondmate with the Myrddraal.” That threat hurried the process along.

Natael was looking forward to burying himself under the covers, holding Taim close and praying that this had merely been a terrible nightmare.

But the nightmare was far from over.

“Now,” Demandred intoned. “The demonstration.”

Natael shook his head. “There’s no need for a demonstration,” he said. “I’m sure that everyone will happily take the oath. Great Master,” he added for good measure. “Really, there’s no need to Turn anyone at all. It would be a waste of-”

Demandred’s lips quirked into a smirk. It was disturbingly reminiscent of Taim’s smile, except that Taim’s was devoid of cruelty. “Well, you do need to be punished in some fashion,” he said. “Moreover, I expect you to begin the Turning of _all_ your recruits as soon as tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. They had to come up with an excuse not to Turn everyone by _tomorrow_.

It was impossible.

And Demandred was sure to check up on their progress – Atal reported to him daily, if not hourly.

Perhaps everyone could study the poor sod who was about to be Turned and _pretend_ to have had their souls wiped out? Natael could give lessons in theatrics-

“Taim,” Demandred said. “You will serve as an example. Natael is a capable administrator, I’m sure he can manage the Black Tower on his own.”

The ground seemed to crumble under Natael’s feet. “No, no, no, you can’t do that.” He thought he was shouting, but the words came out in a low murmur, barely audible. At his side, Taim had gone pale, but he held himself upright. Defiant to the end.

But it couldn’t end like this! Natael stomped forward. “This is a waste of resources, Barid. He’s nearly as powerful as al’Thor. With Tarmon Gai’don upon us, you can’t just-”

“We’re going to _Turn_ him, Natael, not kill him. He will serve us in the Last Battle just as well. And it will suppress his murderous attitude toward me, which I consider a bonus.”

“He won’t be of any use to you,” Natael growled. “Because he’ll be dead. I won’t let him live like that. And I won’t live without him. I’ll burn this whole place to the ground and turn myself into a bloody mountain, if you take him from me. You’ll lose us both. You’ll lose the Black Tower. Might as well kill us now…or Turn someone else.” That was, once again, horribly selfish, not to mention a dangerous gamble. But Demandred _was_ a gambler. Could he afford to squander two of the most powerful male channelers alive and their hundreds of recruits? How would the Dark One react to this?

“I could take over for them, Great Master,” Atal offered. He sounded petulant…or jealous. Perhaps because Natael had never threatened to turn into a mountain for him. “We don’t need them. If we dispose of them now, I promise you that, by next week, every single man and woman of the Black Tower will worship the Great Lord of the Dark, as I do. All of them, including the servants and the children.”

The taint must have melted his brains. Who would Turn an innocent _child_ , for pity’s sake?

Demandred didn’t seem to hear anything the weasel was saying. His gaze was still on Natael, though he glanced at Taim once or twice. His face was as expressionless as usual, but there was a strange, indescribable look in his eyes.

“Besides,” Natael pointed out as an afterthought, “you only have ten Myrddraal now.”

“I told you I have spares. There are sixteen more waiting on the other side of the gateway,” Demandred replied absent-mindedly. “I knew you’d try to take out some of them when you realised you couldn’t kill me.”

Usually, when he said things like that, he sounded smug, but he appeared preoccupied by Natael’s speech. “I could shield you and tie it,” he said in a low voice, in the Old Tongue. His eyes were still on Natael, but unfocused. “No, that wouldn’t work. You may need to defend yourself.” Was he talking to himself now? “We still need you for the Last Battle. You _will_ serve, in the end, one way or another, whether you like it or not.” There was a pause as, Natael supposed, the voices in Demandred’s head debated his options. Was he mad? Natael had been led to believe that the taint couldn’t affect the Chosen, but what if that, too, was a lie? “I can’t leave Blondie in charge, he’s not competent enough and everyone hates him.”

Blondie? That had to be Atal. Natael would have laughed at the nickname, in other circumstances.

“And Taim is extremely competent, no doubt about that. Turn Asmodean instead of him? No, that’s forbidden.” Demandred sighed. “Curse Elan and his whimsies.”

Natael wondered if the Chosen remembered that he could understand the Old Tongue and, for that matter, so could Taim, at least in part. Natael had been teaching him.

“You do realise that this will have to end someday, yes?” Demandred said in the Common Tongue. “Your ridiculous attempts to get the best of me, your will to defy the Shadow. You cannot win. You will be subdued eventually. I will Turn you both myself, when the time comes, if there’s no other option. If you refuse to accept the boon that has been offered you. A second chance for you, Asmodean, and an opportunity to surpass almost everyone else, Taim. Immortality, untainted _saidin_. Why are you being so stubborn about this? What does the Light have to give you, but a chance to sacrifice yourself in vain?”

Once again, under different circumstances, Natael would have agreed. But the Light did have something to offer that the Shadow could never match: Taim.

“I volunteer,” someone said suddenly.

Everyone turned to look at Toveine, including Demandred. “Volunteer for what?”

“Turn _me_ , Forsaken. I volunteer for it.”

There was a collective gasp among the crowd. Taim was shaking his head. “Don’t be silly, Toveine. Why would you do that? Do you have any idea-”

Demandred raised a hand. “Let the woman speak.”

_Let the woman sacrifice herself, burn you!_ Natael wanted to shout to Taim. _She’s trying to save you!_ For literally no reason that Natael could fathom but, to be honest, he didn’t care. He didn’t like Toveine. Nobody did. It was a win-win solution – Toveine was asking for it, and they’d be rid of her repulsive personality, once she became a mindless monster.

Toveine took a step forward. “I have failed my sisters. I led them into a vicious trap. It’s my fault that they will all end up serving the Shadow.” Her voice trembled slightly, but her back was straight, her expression cold and haughty. “I accept this as punishment for my failure. Let me be the first, so that the others will...come to the right decision.”

Natael was all for it, but he had to admit that Toveine was exaggerating. She deserved a good strapping, perhaps, but Turning? No one deserved this. Surely her sisters were going to talk her out of it.

“You are still bonded to Natael, yes?” Demandred asked. Toveine nodded, her face twisting into a grimace at the reminder. “Mm. Yes, that is… That will be an adequate alternative, I think. After all, that was the plan, initially.”

Natael glanced at the rest of the Aes Sedai. None of them said a word, not even to each other. They were all staring at the ground.

Taim, Logain and Natael had considered sacrificing Toveine, sure, but…well, that was before they decided to attempt-murder Demandred. The idea had been quickly discarded – Desandre had been shocked to hear it, in fact. But Desandre was dead.

Were they really going to let it happen? Taim looked as conflicted as Natael felt. They both had good reason to despise Toveine, but-

Demandred had moved closer to the gateway and was saying something in a foreign language that even Natael didn’t recognise. It reminded him vaguely of the Old Tongue, but the words were warped and sounded wrong. A few seconds later, three Myrddraal emerged from the gateway.

There were thirteen now.

“Atal, fetch a chair.” The lad ran to obey. “The men who have sworn the oath will stand on this side,” Demandred went on, indicating the place where they should stand. “Adrielle, you will not participate, but you will demonstrate for your peers, so that the women can copy your weaving later.”

The Asha’man advanced reluctantly. They kept glancing at Taim and Natael for clues, for any indication that they should do something, _anything_ , to prevent this. Taim shook his head sadly. There was no avoiding this. Only a miracle would save Toveine now, and Natael didn’t believe in miracles.

Atal returned quickly and the Myrddraal gathered on the side opposing the Asha’man. Some of the recruits were shivering.

Demandred cleared his throat. “Natael, Taim – we need thirteen channelers in total.”

Oh. Right. Natael was usually better at mathematics but, after Taim had narrowly avoided being Turned, he’d stopped worrying and had not considered the fact that he’d have to participate. He tasted bile at the back of his throat. He’d never done this before. He’d never expected to have to – this was a task reserved for Darkfriends, not Chosen. This time, it was Taim who sought out his hand.

“Hurry up, we’ve wasted quite enough time already,” Demandred urged them.

They stood at the end of the line. Natael was next to a sniffling Einar, whose eyes were red-rimmed. He had not gone on a revengeful killing spree following Desandre’s brutal murder, but he’d felt it, alright. Natael wondered what would happen to himself, when Toveine was Turned.

Demandred gestured to his tattooed men, who removed the shields of the newly sworn in Asha’man, then Atal began the Turning process. The Asha’man, Taim and Natael imitated him.

The good news was that it didn’t last long – with so many male channelers against her, Toveine didn’t stand a chance.

The bad news was that it was the second-most horrifying thing Natael had ever witnessed, and he had been around during the War of Power. The first place would always be attributed to Trollocs devouring live humans, but this was a close contender.

The Asha’man were either white or grey in the face. One of them was crying. Taim looked like he was about to be sick.

As for Toveine…why, she’d never looked better. She was smiling, though it was distorted into an inhuman rictus. She’d screamed for about five seconds, but it had been cut short. She’d had convulsions. And then it was done, in under a minute. She’d sat up straight in the chair, her empty eyes staring at nothing. The bond she shared with Natael was not profoundly altered, but it had gone…flat. As if Toveine were in a coma, or sound asleep. There was no emotion, no pain, nothing strong enough for him to feel. She might as well be dead.

“Good work,” Demandred said. “Get some sleep now. We’ll start again tomorrow. Atal, Adrielle, keep the cattle in line until then. Make use of the other Friends of the Dark if need be. Taim, Natael…I trust you won’t do anything even more idiotic than your pathetic attempt on my life. You would live to regret it – well, one of you would. The other would suffer the same fate as your mother, Natael.”

Natael numbly turned around, but the Chosen had already disappeared through the gateway. His exotic channelers tied the shields they maintained on the Asha'man then followed their master.

Natael had almost forgotten about the other Aes Sedai, mainly because they’d remained entirely silent during the whole awful affair. He’d expected tears, remorse, fear. But their faces were blank, as if they were the ones who’d been Turned. “May we return to our rooms, Ghraem?” one of them asked politely. He couldn’t remember her name. He could barely remember his own.

He tried to reply, but no sound would come.

Atal sniggered. He sounded more and more like Coteren, the brainless bully they’d ditched after Dumai’s Wells. “You do realise that he’s not really in charge here, yes? You will obey me, from now on, _cattle_.”

Everyone ignored him. Even Adrielle rolled her eyes.

“Yes, you may return to your rooms,” Taim told the Aes Sedai. “We’ll…convene tomorrow.”

To try to get ahead of this thing, Natael wondered? How could they? Everyone would have to take the oath. That was the best thing they could hope for, but even that seemed unlikely, at this point. Turning was frighteningly fast, and Demandred wouldn’t want to waste his precious time swearing everyone in. But perhaps the Chosen would be in a more sunny disposition the next day. They could try to convince him…

“Everyone, get to bed,” Taim said in a louder voice. “We will make arrangements in the morning.”

Atal started to protest, but Adrielle grabbed his arm and whispered a few harsh words in his ear. They herded the Aes Sedai out of the ballroom, and the Asha’man followed.

“Maybe Desandre had the right of it,” Taim murmured when they were back in his chambers. He was seated on the edge of the bed.

“She’s certainly better off wherever she is,” Natael concurred. He was pacing the room. He felt restless.

“We should consider…” He trailed off, but he looked into Natael's eyes. He didn't need to finish his sentence.

Mass murder, followed by suicide. It had crossed Natael’s mind, in the short time they’d worked on Toveine. If the Light couldn’t have the Asha’man, then nobody could. If the Shadow truly claimed the minds of the hundreds of recruits they’d assembled here, not to mention the Aes Sedai… It would be a devastating blow to the armies of the Light, when the time came.

Their options were growing scarce.

“We could disperse the men,” Natael suggested. “Send them away in groups of ten or twenty and scatter them across the lands. They should be safe, that way.” Although without gateways, they wouldn’t go very far…

“That’s something to think about,” Taim said, though without much heart. “We should get some rest, Nate.”

“Not sure I can sleep…”

“Then let’s not sleep. But come to bed anyway.”

Natael’s shirt had just come off when something inside him _snapped_. He gasped loudly against Taim’s mouth, and Taim misinterpreted it at first. Natael gently pushed him away, breathing hard. “There’s something wrong,” he said.

“Are you hurt?” Taim asked, a concerned look in his eyes.

Natael shook his head. “It’s Toveine. The bond…it’s gone.”

Taim didn’t have time to enquire further; a scream pierced the night. They gathered their clothes in a hurry, but the door banged open before they could investigate. “M’Hael,” Asha’man Gorman panted, “Ghraem.” He gulped down some air. “The Aes Sedai…”

“Did they kill Toveine?” Natael demanded. She had to be dead. Only he could remove the bond.

Gorman hesitated. “Er…yes, m’lord, but, um…also…“

“What?” Taim snapped. “Speak, man!”

“They’re all dead. The Aes Sedai, that is.”

Taim and Natael exchanged a confused look. Had the man gone mad? It was impossible!

“And, um, a few of the men.”

What in the Pit of Doom? “What _happened_?” he barked at the poor Asha’man. _Don’t shoot the messenger,_ he reminded himself.

“Well, um, it appears that…the ladies ganged up to attack Adrielle Sedai. Um, because she was Black Ajah, I guess…” He trailed off.

“Yes?” Taim prompted him.

Gorman cleared his throat. “They were shielded, so they strangled her with...with her own shawl. Mezar tried to defend her…um, for some reason.” Well, he was bonded to her. Black Ajah or not, there was a connection between them. “So they killed him, too.” Gorman nodded.

And Adrielle’s death had released at least some of the Aes Sedai from their shield, certainly. “Alright, that explains the death of three people, out of forty or fifty. What about the rest?”

“They must have killed Gylli next, because Atal came running. Maybe they used her as bait. Anyway, the Aes Sedai who could channel blasted Atal apart.” He gagged. “There were bits of him everywhere on the floor and walls.”

This, at least, was very satisfying. Natael only regretted that he hadn’t been there.

“And then?” Taim asked wearily. He was so tense, the tendons in his neck stood out.

“A handful of Dedicated and Soldiers arrived next, I’m told. Likely Darkfriends.” He spat at Natael’s feet, but Natael didn’t hold it against him. “The ladies made short work of them.”

Blood and ashes, they would have to pry all the details out of him, wouldn’t they? “And _then_?” Natael prompted him.

“One of the Aes Sedai must have stolen your supplies of, um, mercy poison, m’lord. After the initial bloodbath, they seem to have passed peacefully enough. There wasn’t enough for all of them, though, so, um…they found other ways.”

Goodness. They were a determined lot, he had to give them that. “Who screamed? Was it one of them?”

“Oh, no, m’lord, that was the maid who found them. And there was another maid in the corridor when it all happened, which is how I know how things went down. She’s, um, a bit, um…”

“Shell-shocked?” Natael supplied.

“Traumatised?” Taim offered.

“Hysterical,” Gorman said. “That’s the word I was looking for, m’lords.”

Understandably so.

Well. Aes Sedai couldn’t harm others unless their lives were at risk…but apparently they could harm themselves whenever they felt like it. Or did they feel that their lives were at risk? That was entirely possible, given the circumstances. He had ordered Toveine not to harm herself, but the other Asha’man had had no reason to give the same command to their bondmates. Who would have thought it was necessary?

Gorman cleared his throat. “Um…also…”

Oh, come on! It couldn’t get any worse than this, surely. “What?”

“Einar and the other men who had to take the oath followed the Aes Sedai’s example. And, um…well, with their bondmates dead, some of the rest… I s’pose they were…distraught, and…”

“You said _a few of the men_!” Natael exclaimed. “Blimey, how many are dead?”

“Three Dedicated, two Soldiers and, um…” He gulped down noisily. “Er…twenty-two Asha’man, m’lord.”

Twenty-seven men. They’d lost _twenty-seven_ men in one night. In one _hour_.

That was when he noticed that Taim was no longer standing at his side. He’d taken a seat in one of the chairs. He looked absolutely _wrecked_ by the report. “Er, Gorman, thanks for…” Having the guts to deliver the news? The man must have been terrified out of his wits. “Go down to the kitchens and tell Annie I said you could have a drink. Have a bottle of your choice. We’ll take care of the rest. Go on.” He shooed the Asha’man.

He joined Taim and sat on the armrest. “Are you alright?” Stupid question. He looked terrible, and no one in their right mind would be alright after hearing _this_. “Anything I can do? Do you want some wine? A massage? Both?”

Taim shook his head. “We’re doomed. I mean, we were already doomed, but this is…”

_The last straw_ , Natael thought. Except it wasn’t. It was the opposite. “Don’t you see?” he murmured. “The Aes Sedai saved us. I doubt that it was their primary intention, but they did.”

Taim glared at him as if he’d gone mad. “Forty women died tonight, Nate, and _more than half_ of our remaining Asha'man.”

“Yes, but if we have no female channelers, we can’t Turn the men who are still alive,” he explained. He doubted that the women had sacrificed themselves for their sakes, but perhaps they had at least thought of that. After all, they were servants of the Light. “And they rid us of several Darkfriends. Including bloody Atal. Best of all, Demandred can’t blame us – Adrielle and Atal were supposed to keep them alive until tomorrow, not us.”

Taim’s face froze for a moment. “Well, I suppose so, but… The human cost…”

“…is lesser this way,” Natael finished for him. He knew how it sounded, and it may be callous, but it was the truth. The sad, sad truth. Appalling as it was, it was the best thing that could have happened. “It was them or the entire Tower. Demandred will be in a rage, but what can he do? Until the rebel Aes Sedai or the White Tower send emissaries, or an army, we’re in the clear. There’ll be no Turning for a while. Hopefully until Logain makes contact with al’Thor and returns with help.” He leaned his head in the crook of Taim’s neck. “There’s hope for us yet, my love.”

"Really?" Taim whispered. "Because I'm beginning to think that Turning me won't be necessary. My soul is already as black as it can get."

"It isn't your fault. The Aes Sedai made their decision." Just like Toveine knew they would. Had she foreseen this? Was that why she'd sacrificed herself? "Besides, I won't let Demandred Turn you. I wasn't bluffing, earlier, you know."

"I know. I'd do the same for you."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, but they had already indulged too much. They had quite a lot of bodies to bury before morning, and an elaborate cover-up story to invent.


	30. The ballad of Barid and Lews

_Palace to ashes_

_Sorry about the fun songs_

_You old curmudgeon_

“No, let me do it,” Taim insisted. “The maids have seen enough blood for one night. Talk to them, make sure they don’t tell anyone else about this.”

“Darling, you cannot clean this entire floor by yourself.” There was blood everywhere, and _so_ many bodies… It was nauseating.

“I have to.”

Natael sighed. He didn’t _have_ to; he felt that it was his duty. That was not the same thing. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just…burn the place down?”

Taim looked at him with a scowl. “The whole palace? Are you insane?”

“Well…it’s a good cover story. Atal revealed himself to be a Darkfriend, there was a confrontation… Something caught on fire and they were too busy fighting to put it out. It would explain how we lost all these Asha’man, too…” The Aes Sedai were not really a problem, since few people knew of their presence and, if they did, they didn’t know what they were. They’d lost many men, though. Their families would demand an explanation.

“That’s…” He slowly massaged his temples. “Yes, I understand your reasoning. I suppose…” He trailed off, his gaze unfocused.

Natael squeezed his shoulder to bring him back to reality, no matter how awful it was at the moment. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to the maids, then I’ll set the fire after all the living people have been safely evacuated. You should get some sleep.”

“I should at least report this to al’Thor. That way, Logain will know, as soon as he finds the Dragon.”

“It’s not important right now,” Natael admonished. “You have to sleep. You look like death.”

Taim smirked. “Thanks, _darling_.”

“Hey, you asked for complete honesty in our relationship. Telling you when you look terrible is just me doing my part. Now shoo. Take a sleeping draught if you must. I’ll join you when I’m done cleaning up.”

Taim mumbled under his breath, but he did leave. Natael was almost certain that he wouldn’t go to bed, but at least he wouldn’t have to deal with this nightmare.

“Gorman!” he shouted. The Asha’man must have been nearby, because he was at Natael’s side two seconds later. “Where can I find the maid who witnessed most of the carnage?”

“She’s in the kitchen, m’lord. I, um, shared some of the liquor you allowed me to take earlier. She’s not drunk, though. She can hold her liquor, that one.” He sounded impressed.

Natael started walking toward the kitchen and signalled for Gorman to follow. “What’s her name? Does she have any family?”

“Her name’s Tamzin. She, um, doesn’t have any family here at the Black Tower, but she’s…that is, she _was_ Asha’man Ingozi’s, um, sweetheart. He, um, was one of the men who swore the oath...”

And therefore one of those who had perished. Twenty-two Asha’man, dead. That left only eighteen of them; the rest had gone with Logain. A handful of Dedicated would be ready for a promotion in a few weeks, but if they couldn’t open gateways, how were they supposed to recruit more men? Had Demandred even thought of that? Men still arrived from Caemlyn regularly, but it was a trickle compared to the numbers they had at the beginning.

“Gorman, how many people know what happened?”

“Just a handful, m’lord, all servants who work at night. We did our best to, um, contain the situation.”

Natael nodded. “Good. Let me speak with Tamzin in private, then have them assemble in my study with the Asha’man.”

Gorman saluted and left. He was more efficient than Natael had initially assumed. He took a deep breath before pushing the kitchen door open. There were two maids; he presumed that the one who was partially covered in blood was Tamzin. She sat on a stool, trembling hands holding a cup of clear liquid – the liquor Gorman had shared with her, certainly. The other woman was sitting on the floor, her back against the wall, hugging her knees. Not for the first time, Natael wished that Logain were here.

“I need to speak with Tamzin alone, please,” he said. Neither woman reacted. Oh, bother. He squatted before the other maid, whose name he hadn’t thought to ask. “Hello?” No response. “What’s your name?” Nope, nothing.

“Her name’s Ionadh, Lord Ghraem,” Tamzin said. “She’s very shy, even…” She trailed off and took a sip from her cup. “I mean, she’s always shy.”

“Ionadh, I need you to go to my study and wait there for a bit, yes? Can you do that, please?”

Apparently not. She was completely unresponsive.

“Maybe…maybe _we_ should go to your study, Lord Ghraem? If she won’t move.”

Uh. Outsmarted by a maid. He must be tired. “Let’s do that.”

After three flights of stairs, Natael was already missing gateways. He tried to conceal the fact that he was utterly out of breath by holding the door open for Tamzin. Once inside, she stood at a respectable distance from the desk, as if she were trying to disappear into the background. Well, that was probably what she usually did. Force of habit and all that.

When he felt confident that he could speak without wheezing, Natael offered her a seat, which seemed to surprise her. She sat down gingerly, at the very edge of the seat, her back straight. She was pretty, Natael noted. Not that it was in any way relevant. “I won’t ask for a full account of the night’s events, since you’ve already talked to Asha’man Gorman, but I need a favour from you, Tamzin.”

“I won’t blab, my lord. I never told anyone about the Aes Sedai. Please, you don’t need to kill me. Or Ionadh. She won’t snitch. She barely talks to anyone.”

Natael gaped at her. It had never even occurred to him… Perhaps it should have, but he had not considered murdering the maids who’d witnessed the scene. “I…wasn’t going to. But how did you know they were Aes Sedai?”

“The faces, Lord Ghraem. When I was little, my parents took me to the White Tower to be Healed, because I had a bad fever. I recognised them for what they were right away.”

“Good. I mean…it’s good that you kept it to yourself.”

“My lord, if _I_ may ask a favour…”

“Go on.”

“Asha’man Ingozi wanted his remains to be returned to his native Arafel, if anything ever happened to him. He wanted to be buried next to his brother. Will that be…possible?”

Natael pretended to mull it over, but it was out of the question. Without a gateway, it was impossible. “I’m afraid not. We can’t…that is, we have decided to suspend Travelling for the time being.”

“Could I perhaps take a leave of absence to do it myself? On foot? I could borrow a cart…”

She really cared about the man. But Demandred had warned them: any woman who was caught leaving the Tower would be killed on sight. They wouldn’t bother to figure out if she was an Aes Sedai or not. “I can’t let you do that. It’s too dangerous. Besides…we’re going to burn everything down. The building, the bodies…all of it.”

She bowed her head in disappointment. “I understand.”

“Perhaps…you could hold on to his pins, or another keepsake, and travel to Arafel when…when it’s safer. Bury something next to his brother’s grave and mark the place.”

“Yes, I think he would have liked that.”

“Go retrieve it now. I will talk to the Asha’man, then we’ll have to evacuate. Would you make sure that Ionadh is not in the kitchen when we set the palace on fire?”

“I will. Thank you, Lord Ghraem.” She stood and curtsied, then left the room without turning her back on him. Very proper.

Gorman poked his head inside the room after she departed. “M’lord? I’ve gathered everyone as you asked. We were waiting outside until you were done…”

“Bring them in.”

Eighteen Asha’man. Two more maids and a valet. Natael explained what they were going to do and once again asked that no one speak of what they’d seen. The servants would be relocated in Taim’s palace. The Asha’man would have plenty of room there, too, now that their number had been so brutally reduced. He sent the servants away, then had to talk to the Asha’man alone.

“I’m sorry for what happened,” he declared. “We tried our best to… Taim and I did what we could to prevent this. We really did. I’m sorry it wasn’t enough.”

“Will we have to swear the oath, Ghraem?” Asha’man Nuorekas enquired. He was nineteen, barely a man, but he was a capable channeler who could keep a cool head in stressful situations. “Or will the Forsaken demand that you…Turn us?”

Natael hesitated. He had no idea what Demandred would say or do, how he would react to this unexpected development, but Turning, at least, was out of the question. Without the Aes Sedai, Turning men would be a real hassle, a waste of time.

“What happened tonight is dreadful, obviously, but the silver lining is that there will be no Turning for quite some time. Perhaps the Aes Sedai did what they did with that knowledge in mind, or perhaps not, but either way they have saved the rest of you. Never forget this. The witches’ sacrifice saved your lives.”

“We won’t forget, Ghraem. May they shelter in the palm of the Creator’s hand, and may the last embrace of the mother welcome them home,” Nuorekas murmured.

“Yes…indeed. Um, has anyone seen the Myrddraal?”

“The Aes Sedai wanted to destroy the Shadowspawn, m’lord,” Gorman said, “but they couldn’t _find_ them. We assume that they left when they saw what was going on.”

Natael doubted that. Humans would have been afraid for their lives, but Myrddraal couldn’t feel fear. They instilled it in others, but never experienced it. “They must still be here. Concealed in the shadows, awaiting Demandred’s return.”

“Should we locate them and slay them, Ghraem?”

“No, leave them be. On their own, they’re useless for Turning. Demandred will want them back so they can be put to better use.” He stood. “Gather your things, Asha’man, and make sure there’s no one else in the building. We’ll set the fire in half an hour.”

* * *

They waited in Taim’s study.

The fact that they had to wait for so long was a good thing, in Natael’s opinion. It meant that, if Demandred still had Darkfriends at the Black Tower, they didn’t have a direct way to contact the Chosen. If he had heard about last night’s events, surely he would have showed up before nightfall.

“Is he going to kill us, this time?” Taim enquired. He didn’t seem worried or really interested in the answer; he was just making conversation. He had not slept at all, just like Natael had predicted, but he had pretended to be asleep when Natael had returned from the smoky remains of his palace, well past dawn. Burning the place down was the easy part; the fire had to be controlled and put out when enough of the building was destroyed by the flames. It had taken hours.

Natael had made an announcement to the people – most of the Black Tower population, really – who had assembled to witness the fire. He explained that Atal Mishraile had betrayed them, and that many brave Asha’man had given their lives to stop his evil plan to destroy the Black Tower. No one questioned his words. Demandred was right about Blondie: nobody liked him very much.

Natael had given everyone the day off, following this tragedy, so that the families of the fallen Asha’man could grieve in peace and decide what they would do next. Natael invited them to stay at the Black Tower, insisting that they were safer here than anywhere else in the world.

There would be a memorial ceremony the next morning, he had told them. Taim and he may not be alive to see this through, but Gorman and the rest of the Asha’man would, certainly.

“He might,” Natael replied in the same tone. He was exhausted. Unlike Taim, he wanted to sleep and had no doubt that he could, but there was simply no time. “In his rage, he might. If he can control his temper…probably not.”

 _He won’t kill_ me _, anyway_. Taim’s life was the one that was really at stake here, which bothered Natael more than anything else. But what could he do about it? He would duel Demandred to the death if it came to it, but he had no chance of winning.

All they could do was wait. They did so in silence, sitting side by side on the desk, Natael’s hand covering Taim’s.

The moon was high in the sky when the Chosen finally returned. Demandred used the door, for once, though he didn’t knock, of course. He didn’t kick it open, either. He stood tall in the doorframe, arms at his side. His fists weren’t clenched. His face was as impassive as usual. “Well. You did it, Joar. You actually did something I did not expect.”

In other circumstances, Natael would have gloated. Rarely had anyone gotten the drop on Demandred, arguably the greatest general the world had ever known. In this case, though, he had to convince Demandred that he was not responsible for this tragically convenient development. “It was their own decision, Barid. Believe me, we were as surprised as you are.”

“In fact, had they submitted the idea to us beforehand, I would have refused,” Taim added. “We took a gamble last night, attacking you, but this is a different matter entirely.”

They weren’t even lying. It _was_ a good thing that the Aes Sedai were gone, but they would never have agreed to this madness, had they known what the women were planning. There was much distrust and little liking between them, but they were human beings. That was a lot of people to sacrifice in the vague hope that it would solve a single problem.

Demandred asked something that Natael had never expected to hear from him, no matter the addressee. “How are you feeling, Joar?”

Natael and Taim exchanged a confused look. “I’m…fine?” he said eventually. "Bit tired, though."

“Why do you ask?” Taim demanded, his voice heavy with suspicion.

“Were you not devastated by what happened to that woman you bonded? The Turning, then her sudden death?”

Natael felt a spark of anger. “By the blood falls! Is that why you commanded me to remain bonded to her? Why you wanted her to be Turned before the rest? In the hope that it would _torment_ me?”

“Why else?”

Natael scoffed. “But _why_? What have I ever done to you? We’ve never worked together, and I don’t remember even _talking_ to you. It can’t be because I betrayed the Shadow. You hated me before that. You’ve always despised me.”

“You know perfectly well why, you _kjasic_ buffoon!” Demandred thundered. Oh, _now_ he was in a rage.

Taim arched an eyebrow, but Natael was absolutely mystified. “What, did I maim someone you knew? Is it because of that one time I talked with Ilyena and made her laugh?”

Demandred rolled his eyes. “The songs, you idiot. The bloody songs.”

Natael stared blankly at the Chosen for a moment, then he understood. Unfortunately, his first reaction was to laugh. Demandred’s eyes flashed with fury.

“You hate him because of his music?” Taim said. “He’s really not that terrible.”

That cut the laughter short. “’Not that terrible’?” Natael repeated in a strangled voice, letting go of Taim’s hand. Demandred was all but forgotten. “Wow. Just…wow. What wonderful praise, my dear.” _Not that terrible?!_ “You uncultured swine! I’m the greatest musician who has ever lived!”

“You’re average and you know it,” Demandred said. “Elan knew it, too. He just wanted to recruit you, and your ego had to be flattered.”

“But you can’t dislike someone so strongly simply because you find their music…average,” Taim said.

“That’s not what he’s talking about,” Natael said dryly. Did Taim even realise how insulting he was being? He was worse than Demandred! “He means the songs that I used to perform at Shayol Ghul. It’s their _content_ that he disliked, not the performance itself.” He sighed. “It all started with Lanfear. She was always late to our meetings, you see. Hours late, sometimes. We had to pass the time. Some played _sha’rah_ , others gambled at cards or dice. A few actually made conversation, but that was a rare occurrence. We couldn’t drink, because it was best to attend these meetings sober, and food spoils quickly, that close to the Bore. One day I came up with an idea for entertainment. I made up a song about Lanfear and her fashionably late arrivals. Sammael nearly choked on his own laughter. Even gloomy Moghedien sang along, in the end. It became our unofficial anthem, and I would perform it at every meeting. Soon, whenever someone was late or had simply not been summoned, I would write a few lines about them and sing. It became a tradition, of sorts. And…well, Demandred was usually punctual to a fault, but…”

“There was an _ambush_!” Demandred complained. “I wasn’t late on purpose, burn you!”

“I would never have dared,” Natael hastened to say, “but the others insisted! You were the only one who didn’t have a song.”

“I never asked for one!” Demandred growled.

“You people are insane,” Taim muttered. “Flaming mad.”

Demandred rounded on him. “You wouldn’t say that if he made a song about you. It was hurtful and _humiliating_. There was nothing amusing about it.”

“Because it was too close to the truth?” Natael wondered innocently.

The Chosen’s jaws were clenched. “I swear, the moment Elan has his back turned, I will kill you with my bare hands, Joar. But I’ll murder Taim first, so you can watch.”

Taim feigned to ignore that threat. “I was so sure you hated him because of…well, me. I mean, because we’re together." He was turning redder with every word. "Because he likes men.”

That took Demandred aback. “Why in the Pit of Doom would I even care about that? It’s a risky tactic, but that’s his problem, not mine.”

“Tactic?” Taim repeated in a puzzled tone.

Of course Demandred would believe that Natael was with Taim for tactical reasons. The man wouldn’t know affection or caring if it bit his hooked nose. “The people of this Age can be surprisingly judgemental about that sort of things, actually,” Natael noted.

“Well, not in-” The Chosen cut off abruptly. Taim and Natael stared at him. Had he been about to reveal the name of the nation or city where he had established himself? Could Demandred come so close to making such a gigantic blunder? He must be rattled. Regardless, that was another clue, which Natael stored carefully in his mind. A land where two men could be together without raising eyebrows. Interesting. Maybe they should move there, when they figured out where it was.

Demandred did his best to pretend that nothing had happened. “Enough about the past, enough about the dead Aes Sedai. You will stay the course. The plan is still to Turn as many men as you can before the Last Battle.”

Natael frowned. “You can’t be serious. We have no women, Barid. How are we supposed to-”

“You know as well as I do that channelers of the opposite gender are not a requirement, Joar. They facilitate Turning, but are not necessary to it.”

“Don’t do this, Barid. I’m sorry, alright? I apologise for the song and its irreverent lyrics. Come on, only half a dozen people even remember-”

“It’s ‘Great Master’, to you, worm!” the Chosen barked. “You _will_ obey me. I expect to see mindless Dreadlords whenever I come to visit and, since Atal is gone, there will be no warning.”

Natael opened his mouth again, but Demandred forestalled him. “I will not bring the Binding Rod again. You will Turn every single one of your channelers before Tarmon Gai’don, and that is final. And don’t you _dare_ murder your own recruits. Atal may be gone, but I still have eyes and ears at the Black Tower. Now get to work, you maggots!”

* * *

“What was the song about?”

Natael turned to Taim, scowling. “Really? That’s what you retained from this entire interaction?”

Taim shrugged. “Nah, there’s also the Turning, you being mad at me… But I’m curious. Was it about Lews Therin? I bet it was.”

“Obviously. I compared them in…various ways. I suggested that Demandred joined the Shadow because Lews spurned him and replaced him with another, more attractive bimbo. It wasn’t the fact that they were both men that made it funny,” he clarified when he caught the look on Taim’s face. “You heard Demandred. He doesn’t care about these things. It’s just because it was Lews Therin, and he hates Lews more than he hates me. Which, apparently, is still quite a lot. I never imagined… It was during one of our last meetings before the Bore was sealed that I made up the Demandred song, so it didn’t become the famous Lanfear ballad everyone knew by heart and loved, but it was…catchy. I didn’t even know he’d heard it, honestly. Everyone knew better than to say such things where Demandred could hear.”

“I’m sure these songs will make a brilliant return when we’ve defeated the Shadow,” Taim said. “But until then-”

“Only if they’re sung by someone who is more than _not that terrible_ ,” Natael noted. Did he sound bitter? Of course he did. Taim’s opinion was the only one that mattered, and Taim didn’t care for his music. It was the Elan debacle all over again.

“You have to know I didn’t mean that,” Taim protested. “Nate, I know nothing about music. I resent the words ‘uncultured swine’, but in this particular instance, it’s true, I am. You sound good to me. More than good. Come on, don’t be so grumpy. You know I love you…r music. Your music.” He cleared his throat. “You were right, we should focus on the matter of Turning.”

“Aw. I love you…r awkward attempt at changing the subject,” he said with a bright smile. It was nothing like the Elan debacle. If anything, it was the exact opposite. His heart wasn't shattered; it was fuller than ever. In fact, despite the circumstances, he felt almost...happy.

“This is a pretty serious issue, Nate,” Taim scolded him, though he was clearly holding back a smile. “What will happen if we use men to Turn other men? What’s the difference with what we did to Toveine?”

“I don’t know, exactly. I’ve never seen it done. The Chosen usually avoid it, because it takes time, and it drains the channelers. The ones who do the Turning and the ones being Turned,” he explained. “I’m guessing it will be awful. Are we really going to do it?”

“Do we have a choice?” Taim asked quietly. “Except…what Demandred forbade us to do. You know…killing everyone, including ourselves.”

“Maybe we should discuss the situation with the Asha’man. We’ve made all the important decisions on our own so far, and look where it led us… They may have suggestions. Hopefully good ones. But it'll have to wait until tomorrow. I need sleep, and so do you. Come to bed.”

Taim followed him to the bedroom without protest. They snuggled comfortably under the covers. Natael was already half-asleep, but Taim had one last request: "I don't think I can sleep until I've heard the song." Natael groaned. "Please?"

"It's in the Old Tongue. You speak it decently now, but I doubt you can understand the masterful wordplay and subtle innuendos..."

"Try me."

Natael made a show of being forced to sing against his will, but of course he didn't mind. He would stop performing when he was dead, not a moment sooner.

He ended up singing half of his Shayol Ghul repertoire before realising that Taim had fallen asleep.


	31. Every heart has its own melody

_A new toy for me_

_I love arguing with you_

_Yay, we won this round_

Natael read the report a second time, his eyes widening. “Why am I only seeing this now?” he demanded.

The young Dedicated, Ideges, wrung his hands, staring at the ground. “Respectfully, Ghraem, Asha’man Mishraile assured me that he would take it to you right away… That was some time ago, though. Before we found out that he’s…er, was a…” He nearly choked on the last word, which came out in a barely audible whisper: “Darkfriend.” He went on in a halting tone. “After the…incident at your palace, Lord Taim had us arrest Asha’man Mishraile’s…er, good friend, Dedicated Altmann. In case he was also a…”

“Darkfriend, yes, I’m aware of this.” They had hanged Altmann the day after the fire. He’d attacked the men who were supposed to bring him in for questioning, which was an admission of guilt if ever there was one.

“It took us a while to sort through his things,” the Dedicated apologised. “There was much correspondence, most of it indecipherable.”

“What do you mean?”

“’twas written in some sort of code, m’lord. This report, they merely intercepted it, which is why it’s not in their evil language.”

“I’ll take a look at the Shadow letters.” He doubted he would be able to crack the code, but it was worth a try. There could be priceless intelligence in these messages – instructions from Demandred, insights into his plans, and perhaps more clues regarding his whereabouts. “Was there anything else of note?” He dearly hoped not. This was bad enough.

The Dedicated hesitated. “…no, Ghraem.”

Natael sighed. “I know you’re lying. Do you want to spend the next two months testing new recruits?” It was considered the most tedious chore among the Dedicated.

“Well, there was a…portrait. Of you, m’lord. A fairly accurate one, but it was…defiled. The eyes were scratched out, they drew a silly moustache, and, er…”

“Yes?” Natael prompted him, though he wasn’t sure why. You’d think he had heard enough, wouldn’t you?

“It was pinned to the wall just above the chamber pot.” He cleared his throat, looking away. “There were stains…” he muttered.

“Classy,” Natael said dryly. “Thank you, Dedicated. You are dismissed. If you happen to see M’Hael, please let him know that I need to talk to him in the study.”

“I’m right here,” Taim called from the door. Ideges saluted them both and made a quiet exit. “What’s the problem this time?”

“Why do you assume it’s a problem?”

Taim raised an eyebrow as he settled into the chair across from Natael. “Is it not?”

“Of course it is, but you shouldn’t be so pessimistic all the time, darling, it’s bad for you. You’ll get wrinkles centuries before you’re due.”

Taim groaned in despair. “Just tell me.”

“It seems that my old colleague Aginor – you may remember him as Corlan Dashiva – and some of his friends of a certain shade attempted to murder our lord and future saviour.”

Taim’s face didn’t change. “The key word here is ‘attempted’, I think. They’re not the first to try, and they won’t be the last. Why is it so important?”

“Well, they’re Asha’man… They’re our responsibility.”

“One could argue that they’re al’Thor’s responsibility. The amnesty was his idea.”

“But we gave him the bad Asha’man on purpose… Something like this was going to happen sooner or later.”

“Except that nothing happened,” Taim countered. “Was al’Thor injured?”

“No, but…” Natael leaned forward on the desk. “Are you alright?” He was acting strangely. He’d spent the past few days wallowing in guilt over something that was entirely beyond his control; why was he suddenly intent on blaming al’Thor for this when he had to know that it was indeed partly their fault?

“If it was so bloody important, why didn’t he come in person to let us know?” Taim said, ignoring Natael’s last question. “We don’t even know where he is. How could we have prevented it? He tells us nothing. He never visits. And yet he expects us to ward off the Light knows how many Forsaken and protect everyone…”

Ah…the guilt had shifted to anger. Anger that Taim had apparently decided to direct at the farm boy… As if not enough people felt angry at the Dragon Reborn already.

Also, this was how most of the Forsaken had become Forsaken (no matter how much they preferred the term “Chosen”). Natael didn’t want Taim to follow that path. It would destroy him – destroy them both.

“Al’Thor is younger even than you, Taim, and he’s spent most his life herding sheep. He’s barely a man, and he has been burdened with the fate of the entire world. I know that you once coveted the title, but after being in charge of several hundred people for a few months, and failing them so many times, do you still wish you were the Dragon Reborn? Do you want that weight on your shoulders? Do you really believe that you would do a better job? You still haven’t fully processed what happened at Dumai’s Wells, let alone the whole Aes Sedai mess. Al’Thor has to process things like that weekly, if not daily.”

Taim was staring at him, more surprised than angry now. “You’re defending him? After everything? He could have-”

“ _We_ decided not to ask for his help at the beginning because we thought he couldn’t be trusted. Now we’ve sent Logain on his trail in the hope that he’s sane enough to forgive us and come to our aid, even if it’s too late for the people we’ve already lost. Some of them can be saved, Taim. We still don’t know if our latest strategy will work, if it will even buy us some time.”

“I highly doubt it,” Taim mumbled. “It’s the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard. A _child_ would have come up with something better.”

“And yet you had no alternative suggestion,” Natael reminded him. “We voted, Taim. The Asha’man were unanimous. You cannot deny them the right to defend themselves, no matter how…unorthodox the method.” He waved the subject away. It had caused quite enough arguments. “You cannot blame al’Thor for what happened. You cannot blame yourself. The only person to blame is Demandred. The Shadow is the enemy, Taim. You must remember that. If they manage to divide us, they have already won. Besides, knowing al’Thor, he already blames himself for everything, even if he’s not aware it’s happened yet.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It would, to him.”

Taim was silent for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “What happened to the Asha’man who attacked him?”

“They escaped.”

“Does al’Thor expect us to hunt them down?”

“There were no instructions, merely a brief account of what happened.”

Taim rolled his eyes. “As usual. Well then, we’ll declare them deserters and traitors and await further information from al’Thor or from our eyes and ears.”

Come to think of it, it was odd that their spies – few and scattered as they may be – had not reported the incident.

“Without gateways,” Taim went on, “there isn’t much we can do anyway.”

“Good, you are both here,” someone else said.

Oh, bother. “Back so soon?” Natael said in a resigned tone, looking up as Demandred entered the room without an invitation.

Taim had tensed visibly. “It’s only been a week. We’ve only had time to Turn two-”

“Yes. I saw one of them outside.” Natael nearly exhaled with relief. Taim’s eyebrows rose, but he masked his surprise before Demandred could notice. “But it is not why I’m here today.”

_Ugh, what now?_

Demandred shooed Taim out of his seat and took it for himself. Taim didn’t complain; he leaned against the desk, arms crossed. Natael didn’t think he’d ever seen Demandred sitting in the presence of potentially hostile people, and unshielded channelers at that. Was he tired? There were shadows under his eyes, but those had been there since the War of Power. He notoriously slept only a few hours a night, when he slept at all. “We have a problem.”

That didn’t bode well. The use of “we” was especially ominous.

“Lews…” The Chosen pinched the bridge of his nose. “ _Al’Thor_ has gone mad.”

That was more than a problem. It was a bloody disaster. Natael didn’t dare look at Taim, for fear of seeing his own despair reflected in his lover’s eyes.

“What happened?” Taim enquired. He didn’t sound desperate, or even worried. Vaguely curious, perhaps.

“Nothing has happened _yet_ ,” Demandred replied. “But he plans to destroy the world.”

“That doesn’t sound like something the lad would do on purpose, let alone _plan_ to do,” Natael noted.

Demandred shook his head wearily. He’d never looked more vulnerable than he did at this moment. Should they try… He chanced a glance at Taim, but he was entirely focused on the Chosen. “What does he intend to do, precisely?”

“To cleanse _saidin_ ,” Demandred replied in a murmur.

Natael gaped in shock, even more so when he realised that Taim was very nearly smiling. “Seems like a logical move. He wants an army of soldiers who aren’t liable to go mad at any moment. After all, he has no idea that the Black Tower belongs to the Shadow. I’m not sure what’s the problem… Untainted _saidin_ would benefit us more than the Dragon.” Natael didn’t know why Taim bothered to pretend to be on the Shadow’s side when Demandred clearly knew better, but perhaps he did so out of habit. Or to set an example for the poor recruits who were condemned to pretend the exact same thing until the Last Battle.

Demandred looked at Taim as if _he_ had gone mad. “That’s neither here nor there. There’s a difference between wishing for something impossible and actually trying to do it. The fool is going to kill us all in the attempt.”

“How so?” Natael asked. There was something that Demandred wasn’t telling them.

“The idiot plans to use the Choedan Kal.”

“Huh.” That was all that Natael could manage. Demandred was right; if the lad used the _sa’angreal_ , they would likely all die.

“What’s the Choedan Kal?” Taim wanted to know.

“The most powerful _sa’angreal_ ever created,” Demandred replied. “So powerful, in fact, that it has never been used. It’s too dangerous.”

“The Choedan Kal is the reason why I was in the Aiel Waste,” Natael added. “I was looking for the access key, and-”

“No one wants to hear of your dramatic failures, Nessosin,” Demandred said impatiently. “We need to stop this madness.”

Natael gave him an affronted look. “And how do you propose we do that?”

“Moridin wants us to be there when Lews…when al’Thor makes his attempt. We must foil him at all costs.”

“We’re supposed to try and stop him _while he’s channeling through the bloody thing_?!” Natael exclaimed.

“He’ll be focused on the task at hand,” Demandred said. “He’ll be distracted and vulnerable.”

Taim sneered. “Yes, and I’m sure he’ll be all alone out there… No guards or anything to keep intruders out of the area.”

Demandred warned him not to be sarcastic in his presence with a glare. “A handful of these so-called Aes Sedai, the few remaining Asha’man that he has at his disposal… The rest will be non-channelers. We can easily remove these pawns from the game.”

This was the real madness, in Natael’s estimation: to underestimate the primitives of this Age. They may be ignorant and uncouth, but they were more resourceful and resilient than the Chosen gave them credit for. And they were bloody stubborn.

Taim remained impassive. “And how are we supposed to Travel there?”

“I will modify the Dreamspike so that you two can open gateways.”

Natael slapped his forehead. Of course it was flaming Dreamspike! How had he not guessed that? Well, it didn’t matter. There was nothing they could have done about it anyway.

Demandred stood. “I will notify you when the time comes. Be ready. And do speed the Turning along. Tarmon Gai’don approaches.” Probably just to show off, he opened a gateway right there and disappeared through it.

Natael caught Taim trying to sneak a peek before it vanished. “It’s always the same room,” he muttered.

“Let’s not worry about it now,” Natael said. “We obviously have bigger concerns.”

Taim eyed his former seat with a faint grimace, and ultimately decided to stay where he was, though he turned in Natael’s direction. “Is it really that bad? I mean, if al’Thor succeeds…”

“I hate to agree with Demandred, but there’s no way this will end well. For one thing, I doubt that what the boy wants to do is feasible, no matter how it’s done, and for another… Well, even in our Age, we feared the power of the Choedan Kal.”

“But you tried to steal the access key,” Taim remarked. “You must have intended to do something with it.”

“It was her idea,” he mumbled. Taim frowned questioningly. “Lanfear wanted the key. The whole Aiel Waste scheme was her idea. I just…tagged along.”

“Why?”

A fair question, but one that Natael preferred not to answer. “Well I…had nothing else going on,” he replied evasively.

“Is it because she scared the living daylights out of you? You can say it without shame. I never had the pleasure to meet her – alive and awake – but I grew up with tales of the Daughter of the Night, who snatches naughty little boys in their beds at night and eats them…”

Natael chuckled. “Your parents didn’t understand the purpose of a bedtime story, did they?”

“My mother rarely got the chance to tuck me into bed. This was the kitchen matron’s favourite way of punishing me for stealing freshly-baked buns.”

Natael stared. He’d never heard Taim mention anything from his past, let alone from his childhood. “What did your mother do?”

“I thought we had bigger concerns to discuss?”

Oh well. Another time, perhaps. “Indeed. By the way, it’s not because I was scared of Lanfear…” He was. Always had been. Even before she became Lanfear. But that was beside the point. “I tried to…evade my responsibilities, after I came out of my long slumber in the Bore. I don’t even know how Lanfear found me, but she said I had to help her, or else she would report me to Ishamael.” He sighed. “As you know, he and I have a complicated relationship.”

“I’m aware,” Taim said curtly. Ooh, was this a hint of jealousy Natael detected in his voice? How sweet. “Isn’t there a way to…disable the _sa’angreal_?”

“If there was one, I’m fairly certain that Elan would know of it, and he would have done so already.”

“What can we do, then? Any suggestions?”

“I’m afraid not,” Natael said. “If Logain has somehow already reached the boy, he may be able to talk some sense into him, but that’s a long shot. If you didn’t know about the Choedan Kal, Logain probably doesn’t, either. Besides, he would be tempted to let al’Thor give it a try regardless of the risks, considering the potential reward…”

“Well, so am I,” Taim said. “Imagine if-”

Natael shook his head. “It’s not going to happen. Our best hope is to shut down the operation before al’Thor can begin channelling through the Choedan Kal. After that, he’ll be virtually unstoppable.”

“But he will be focused on the task at hand, like Demandred said. He’ll be counting on his guards to ward off an assault. If we can buy him enough time-”

“So you’re not only willing to give this madness a chance, you actually want us to _help_ the lad destroy the world?”

“Weren’t you berating me to give al’Thor the benefit of the doubt just half an hour ago?”

“That was before Demandred informed us of his plan!”

They glared at each other. Taim relented after a moment, sighing heavily. “Look, I didn’t give your idea any credit and, against all odds, it seems to be working. And it _was_ the most insane idea I’ve ever heard. I never thought we could pull it off, not for one second. Granted, Demandred had other things on his mind, but-”

“That’s completely different!” Natael insisted. “Don’t compare my elegant solution to a thorny problem with al’Thor’s unrealistic schemes.”

“What do you propose, then? That we go there and actually try to kill al’Thor?”

“Stop him, not kill him. I don’t think that they want him dead.”

“Well, do what you want. But if there’s even a slight, nay, an _infinitesimal_ chance that al’Thor accomplishes his goal… I’m willing to take it. You can pretend to follow orders while I deal with the other Chosen, or whoever they send. Don’t complain to me afterwards about any fireballs singeing your fancy clothes, though,” he added with a smirk.

Natael hesitated. He was tired of arguing. Did it really matter? It always came down to the same conclusion: they were likely to die whatever they decided to do. “Fine, fine, you win. Again.”

“Again?” Taim exclaimed. “You always win our arguments! You always get your way!”

“It’s not a competition, darling. It’s all about compromise.”

“Don’t play the old wise man card,” Taim warned him. “It never works.”

Probably because Natael was far from wise. Or old. The three thousand years he’d spent inside the Bore didn’t count; they’d been over that several times.

There was a knock on the door. They both said, “Come in!” at the same time, but Natael didn’t mind that anymore.

It was Asha’man Gorman. His eyes were blank. He bowed and spoke tonelessly. “Great Masters. You summoned me?”

Taim really smiled, for once. “You can drop the act, Asha’man. He’s gone, and he has more important things to do than spy on us at the moment.”

“Great performance,” Natael congratulated him. “We think he bought it.”

Gorman relaxed, his shoulders slumping. “Thank the Light. It’s harder than it looks, m’lords, to be utterly expressionless all the time. Especially when, um, Demandred is staring right at you. I thought for sure he’d see the fear in my eyes, or notice that I was sweating…”

“If he did, he didn’t comment on it,” Natael said, “and Demandred rarely misses an opportunity to tell me I’ve done something wrong. We’re in the clear for now. We’ll have to pick another recruit soon, though. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. Have you decided on anyone?”

“Aye. Another Dedicated, Ghraem. Um, Attur, his name is.”

“Good. We’ll fill him in tomorrow and I’ll teach him how to behave like a soulless person.” He was really good at this, for some reason. Maybe because he’d spent so much time around _zomaran_ , after he joined the Shadow. These creepy creatures used to be at every event.

Was his idea to give lessons in theatrics to some of the men to give the illusion that they’d been Turned to the Shadow insane? Perhaps, but it was _brilliant_. So simple, so easy to implement. It was hard on those recruits, though. Gorman had volunteered, but they had to use Soldiers and Dedicated, too, otherwise Demandred would get suspicious. The Chosen knew that the Asha’man were aware of everything that was going on. That meant that they had to trust more recruits with their secrets, but as long as it worked… The ploy was merely supposed to buy them some time, anyway. It would not hold until the Last Battle. Although if Demandred had one flaw, it was that he sometimes had trouble reading people. If the recruits managed to keep in character whenever they were outside, it could work for some time… Weeks, or even months, if they were especially lucky and didn’t accidentally hire a Darkfriend. Natael trusted Gorman, though. The Asha’man was an excellent judge of character. Informally, he was their new Damer Flinn. (Though Natael did miss the codger. He hoped he was alright.)

“Thank you, Gorman,” Taim said. “Get some rest, you deserve it.”

“Don’t forget to-”

“I know, Ghraem. Always stay in character unless you give me permission to, um, act normal.” He chuckled softly. “I hope I don’t forget how to be normal when this is all over.” With that, he left.

“He’s a very optimistic chap, isn’t he?” Natael commented. “’When this is all over’. Aw. If he only knew.”

“Mm, you did tell me not to be so pessimistic all the time… Take your own advice, perhaps?” Taim suggested, a half-smile on his lips.

Natael grunted. “Again, that was before Demandred came bearing bad news…”

Taim went around the desk and massaged Natael’s shoulders. “Don’t pout so much, darling, you’ll get wrinkles.”

“I hate it when you use my wise words against me,” he grumbled.

“I know what will cheer you up,” Taim said. He squeezed Natael’s shoulders. “Come with me.”

Natael followed him. “While I love that going to the bedroom is your answer to all of our arguments these days, we should continue our discussion about-”

“You agreed with my plan, if I remember correctly. What else is there to talk about? We can’t exactly make plans, since we have no clue when or even where it will happen. Forget about it for the night.”

Taim opened the door their bedroom. Natael was already unbuttoning his shirt, but he froze in his steps when he caught sight of something inside the room. Whatever it was, it was large, but it was covered by a sheet. “Is that…a full-length mirror? I thought you didn’t want me to have one because it would take me even longer to dress in the morning…”

Taim said nothing, but he was smiling again. Whatever the surprise was, he was proud of himself. In a grand, theatrical gesture, he removed the sheet.

Natael was rarely rendered speechless, but this was one of these times.

A harp. A pedal harp, not the small one he usually carried strapped to his back.

“You couldn’t stop singing the other night, but I haven’t heard you play any instrument lately. I thought…perhaps if it was your favourite instrument, you’d feel more-”

“No one has ever…” His speech was returning, but there was something wrong with his voice. His eyes felt…humid. “That’s the most thoughtful…” He had to clear his throat. Flaming ashes, was he going to cry?

Ugh, Taim was grinning now, like a bloody madman. Infuriating as it was, though, Natael had never loved him more. He even considered saying it. Was it too soon? Was there ever a good time to say that? Not half-jokingly, as they’d done recently, but…sincerely?

No. He was feeling emotional because of the harp. He couldn’t say it now. Taim was bound to believe that he had to buy Natael shiny new things for him to be happy, if he said it now.

That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, though.

“Nate? Do you like it?” Taim’s grin had faded; he looked hesitant. “Is there something wrong with it?”

“No, it’s perfect. It’s bloody perfect. I just don’t know what to say.”

“Thank you?” Taim suggested.

Natael chuckled and moved closer to him. “Thank you.” He put his arms around Taim’s neck and kissed him deeply. “I didn’t get you anything, though,” he said some time later.

Taim was a little out of breath. “Well, thanks to you, we haven’t had to kill anyone in a few days. That’s a great gift.”

“I want to thank you more properly, but I’m dying to-”

“Of course,” Taim said. “Go on, try it.”

It really was perfect. The music flowed, gentle, melodious, filling his ears and his mind. He may have actually cried at some point, but he didn’t care. It had been too long. When he was done, he stood and planted himself in front of Taim. He was smiling again. Too much smiling would give him wrinkles, too, but Natael didn’t care about that, either. They’d be lucky if they lived long enough to be old and wrinkled. He took Taim’s hands and stared into his eyes. “I love you.”

“Oh, I know.” He laughed, presumably at the offended look on Natael’s face. “I love you, too, old man. Now come to bed. There must be some argument we haven’t settled yet.”


	32. They were born to be dead, but now they will live

_Kudos, Dragon Boy_

_This is the best day ever_

_Hope it never ends_

_It’s clean._

Natael imagined that every single male channeler in the world was presently either thinking, whispering or shouting these words. Taim was mouthing them silently right now, a look of awe on his face. He looked at least ten years younger.

“It’s clean, Nate,” he repeated aloud.

“I know.”

“He did it. He really did it.”

“Yeah, he did.”

“And the world still stands. Demandred was wrong.”

 _I was wrong, too._ Natael had expected to die today more than any previous day, which was saying a lot. There was no lack for opportunity.

Taim suddenly grabbed hold of Natael’s face with both hands and kissed him hard on the mouth. “Nate, do you understand what this means?” he said excitedly.

“Well… We won’t go mad. I think.” Or madder, at least. The consequences of al’Thor’s feat were still a bit uncertain. Had he merely cleansed the taint, or had he also cured the madness that already affected some male channelers?

“We don’t have to resign ourselves to a tragically early death in a few months or years. We can actually _live_ , Nate. We can grow old…” He paused, looking into Natael’s eyes. “Together, if you’d want that… I mean, obviously, at the beginning of our relationship, that wasn’t in the cards… We pretty much expected to be dead at any moment… This is a different sort of commitment altogether, and I don’t want to pressure you into anything, but…”

“Shush,” Natael said, pressing an index finger against Taim’s lips. “It’s been _five minutes_ , Taim. Take a deep breath. Relax. Enjoy the purity of _saidin_. Enjoy being alive. We don’t have to make important decisions right this instant. We have all the time in the world to figure it out.” He didn’t feel pressured, though, or uncomfortable. A few weeks ago, hearing Taim say this would have likely caused Natael to flee in terror, but not anymore.

Taim nodded and pushed Natael’s finger so he could speak. He sounded calmer, somewhat. “We need to be more careful, now that we have something to live for.”

“Yes, we do. No more silly attempts at ambushing Demandred.”

“We have to lie low,” Taim concurred. “We can’t afford to make waves. It would be a shame to die now, when there’s suddenly so much hope for us. For our people. For the world.”

“Agreed.” He squeezed Taim’s shoulder. “Come on, we should go.”

“Go? But al’Thor is right there!”

“So?” Were they supposed to congratulate him on not blowing them all up to Oblivion?

“Why should we wait for Logain to find him and talk to him when we could do it right now?”

“Well…if we go to him, we’ll have to tell him about the Aes Sedai. Logain doesn’t know yet. He stands a better chance at getting help. Also, al’Thor doesn’t like us, but he doesn’t know Logain. He has no reason to dislike him.”

Taim was frowning. The euphoria that had followed the cleansing was already fading. “He had no reason to dislike me, either, but he did so anyway, right from the beginning. Logain and I are both False Dragons and equally powerful, or near enough. Why should he prefer Logain over me?”

“Logain is very charismatic,” Natael replied without thinking.

Taim’s face turned to stone. “And I’m a sarcastic oaf. Yeah, that makes sense. Let’s wait for Logain to save us, if he’s so bloody great.”

“That’s not what I-”

“What is going on here?”

“Nothing!” Natael said automatically. It was a bad habit he’d picked up over the centuries. He turned to find Demandred waiting nearby, his arms crossed over his chest. “Ahem. Nothing, we’re just…glad that…it all worked out in the end. We’re alive! What a relief, eh?”

Demandred raised an eyebrow. “What about that, then?” He pointed downward to indicate a log-

_He’s not pointing at the log, you idiot. He’s pointing at the dead body beside it._

Right. That. Natael glanced at Taim, but he seemed to have forgotten about it, too, until now.

“He attacked us,” Natael hastened to clarify. “Threw fireballs at us, probably thinking that we were the enemy, but even when he saw who we were, he kept firing. We were merely defending ourselves.”

It was mostly true.

Demandred glared at him a moment longer. “Can’t say I’m surprised,” he muttered eventually. “He was always a wild card.”

Then, without warning, he balefired the remains of Corlan Dashiva.

“There. We can blame this on Lews Therin, like everything else.” He grimaced. “At least something positive happened on this fateful day.”

“But the cleansing of the taint… Is that not a good thing?” Taim asked. “The recruits we Turn won’t go mad.”

Demandred shrugged. “That never mattered. Insane or not, what is important is that they won’t bolster the enemy’s ranks. Most of the male channelers of the entire world will serve the Shadow, when Tarmon Gai’don rages.”

 _Of the entire world._ Did it mean that Demandred had found male channelers somewhere else than at the Black Tower? As far as Natael knew, the Seanchan killed their male channelers (and enslaved the female ones). But perhaps that was just a rumour. He hadn’t met any of these Westerners, after all. He couldn’t base his facts on hearsay.

More and more, Seanchan seemed to be the answer to the question of Demandred’s whereabouts. Or perhaps the mysterious Land of Madmen? With a name like that, you’d expect it to be inhabited by raving male channelers…

“Anyway,” Demandred said. “Playtime’s over. Let’s return you two to the Black Tower before you do something stupid.” He smirked. “Judging from your expressions, I see that it’s precisely what you intended to do.”

Natael and Taim were still holding the Source. They exchanged a look. It was two against one, this time. No trickery. Demandred must be there in the flesh, if he’d used balefire.

“Go ahead, make my day,” the Chosen murmured. “Please. Any reason to be rid of you as permanently as Aginor. Moridin will be cross, but it’ll be worth it. You’re exhausting, and I have better things to do than babysit you.”

They’d just promised to be more careful, not to take any unnecessary risk… It would be a terrible shame indeed, to die the same day that the Dragon Reborn had saved them all.

Natael sighed and released _saidin_. Taim imitated him, though he seemed to be hoping to drill a hole through Demandred with his eyes.

“Atta boys.” Demandred shielded them and opened a gateway. “Go on. I’ll modify the Dreamspike again. No Travelling for you until I have some sort of guarantee that you won’t try to screw me over. _Again_.”

Natael should have listened to Taim; they should have gone straight to al’Thor when they had the chance. It was too late now. If he yelled to draw the Dragon’s attention, Demandred might harm the lad. Judging by the sounds and screams they’d heard while the battle raged half an hour ago, al’Thor had lost several men and women already, and they would all be tired. They couldn’t risk it.

They had to trust that Logain would succeed where they had failed.

* * *

“This is probably the best day we’ve ever had at the Black Tower,” Natael commented. Taim and he were sitting side by side on a dais, in two large chairs.

Well, thrones, really. There were carved dragons on the armrests. One of their newest recruits was a master woodworker.

“Not a single casualty,” he went on. “The taint is gone. Dashiva’s dead, and we weren’t punished for it. We’re unharmed. We’re alive.” Really, things couldn’t get much better than this. Except, of course, if the Light was victorious in the Last Battle.

They’d returned to the Black Tower to find utter chaos, but it was the _good_ sort of chaos – people dancing in the streets, men and women kissing unabashedly, some laughing, some crying with relief and happiness, all of them cheering… If Taim and Natael didn’t know any better, they might have thought that everyone had gone insane while they were gone.

They didn’t have the heart to even try to restore some semblance of order. The men and their loved ones deserved a break. Instead, they had opened several kegs of ale and improvised a little celebratory feast. The guards at the gate were relayed every hour, so that everyone could participate. The few men who had been designated to feign having been Turned were also allowed to take a break. Demandred was gone, and there was likely going to be an official Chosen meeting to debrief their failure to foil al’Thor’s plans. He wouldn’t come back that day.

“I wish we could have talked with al’Thor…” Taim murmured.

Natael sighed. “I know, I know. It’s my fault, sorry. I should have listened to you.”

“There’s no need to apologise. Anyway, he might actually make an appearance, don’t you think? If there ever was an occasion to show up at the Black Tower, it’s today…”

“Do you really think so?” Natael said sceptically. After all, the lad had not bothered to give them so much as a heads-up. Or to request their assistance. If al’Thor had tasked them to guard him while he cleansed _saidin_ , they would have had a great excuse not to pretend to disrupt his plans.

Though to be fair, they had not pretended very hard… They’d showed up. They’d realised that trying to get close to Shadar Logoth would get them killed. Whoever was guarding the Dragon Reborn, they were numerous and some of them were linked. And at least one of them was in possession of a _sa’angreal_ – almost certainly Callandor. It was a suicide mission. Moridin had to know that, and Demandred, too. They couldn’t possibly expect them to succeed in preventing al’Thor from accomplishing his goal.

Was that why Demandred had been so magnanimous regarding Aginor’s death? Or had he been hoping for such a happy accident? It really _was_ an accident. Taim and Natael had not recognised the Chosen in the dark, and Aginor must have assumed that they were part of al’Thor’s retinue. When he’d attacked them, they’d retaliated in self-defence, as anyone would have.

They’d kept attacking when they realised it was Dashiva, but no one would ever know that.

Demandred was apparently already set on getting rid of the competition. The Last Battle would begin soon indeed.

“Well, he did this mainly for our sake, didn’t he? For all male channelers. Since most of them are here at the Black Tower…” Taim shrugged. “It’s a logical assumption that he’ll want to celebrate with us.”

“Our sake, or his?”

Taim glanced at him. “In all fairness, his sake and that of the world are closely related. And we are part of the world…”

“I guess you’re right.” Natael whistled softly through his teeth. “I still can’t believe it. He really did it.”

They’d been repeating the same words over and over, just like everyone else: _I can’t believe it. It’s clean. He did it. He really did it. We’re saved._

Essentially, their recruits seemed to expect the Last Battle to be a mere formality, now. They thought they were invincible, all of a sudden.

Taim had already set an hour the next day to remind them all that the worst was yet to come, that the fight was far from over and that they shouldn’t let their guard down. Or their hopes up. Natael thought that was a bit harsh but, after a night of drinking, dancing and carousing, he had a feeling that the reminder would be necessary. This was but a brief respite.

They might still all die during Tarmon Gai’don.

“Why the gloomy face?” Taim asked quietly. He put his free hand on top of Natael’s. The other one was holding a cup of water – no wine for M’Hael tonight. Someone had to be sober, he’d insisted, because tonight would be a perfect opportunity to attack the Black Tower. The enemy could take advantage of the celebrations to take them by surprise. The enemy being the Aes Sedai, of course.

As a show of support, Natael had promised not to drink, either. It was one of the most challenging things he’d ever done, going an entire day and night without wine.

“Nate? Come on, you’re the one who told me to relax. Enjoy the fun while it lasts.”

“I’m fine, it’s just… This is great, but… I thought I’d be happier about it, I suppose. More…relieved. I mean, there’s no way of knowing the long-term effects… What if we still go mad, because we’ve channelled the taint at any point in our lives? What if, once you’ve touched it, once it’s gotten into your brain, it’s too late? What if the only people who are truly saved are the ones who haven’t been born yet, or haven’t seized _saidin_ yet, or-”

“Or perhaps we’re already mad, and we’re having a collective hallucination,” Taim remarked with the hint of a smile. “Perhaps we’re dead and none of this is real.”

“Are you trying to out-doom me?” Natael demanded, feeling somewhat offended. Being overdramatic was _his_ thing!

“I can’t tell if you translated a word from the Old Tongue literally, or if you just made it up…”

“I’m being serious, Taim. Aren’t you worried that-”

“I’m less worried today than I’ve ever been in my entire life. Well, in my adult life, at least,” he amended. He cocked his head sideways, to indicate the people rejoicing. “Look at them. Whatever happens next, they have known at least one day of pure happiness in their lives. A day where everything was perfect: they were alive, their loved ones were healthy, they thought they would live in eternal bliss… Even a few days ago, that would have been impossible. No matter how optimistic and cheerful their nature, the threat of their impending madness and death, the fear of leaving their families to fend for themselves, were always hanging over their heads. Look at them, Nate,” he repeated with ferocious intensity. “Even if al’Thor defeats the Dark One and saves humanity, this is the day they will remember. The day they learned that they wouldn’t accidentally harm or kill their friends, spouses or children. The day they found out that they had something to live for after all, that it wasn’t all in vain. Because sure, fighting for the Light is noble, fighting to give your descendants a chance at a better world is honourable, but what’s the point in fighting when you know you may not live a month or year past the day of our ultimate victory to enjoy it _yourself_?”

“You might want to write this down and use it for your speech tomorrow,” Natael noted.

Taim chuckled. “Oh, it won’t quite as heartening as this. They’ll be hungover; I’ll have to keep it short and sharp to retain their attention.”

“Aren’t you even worried about an attack? You said… When the Aes Sedai find out what happened...”

“They won’t believe it until they have concrete proof,” Taim replied with a bitter smirk. “They won’t _want_ to believe it. Think about it… What purpose does the Red Ajah have now?”

“Mm. I hadn’t thought about that.” Chiefly because he didn’t care. Most Aes Sedai were useless anyway. Moiraine Damodred, the majestic, selfless heroine who had sacrificed her life to rid the world of Mierin Eronaile, was an exception.

“Besides, our pal Barid would warn us if they planned to attack,” Taim added. “He seems to know everything that’s happening everywhere at all times…”

“Speaking of, do you think that he, or perhaps someone else…eliminated our eyes and ears? Because we haven’t heard anything of import lately.”

“Either that, or he’s intercepting our messages and giving us whatever he deems needful. He wants to isolate us, to prevent us to seek outside help. We can only hope that he won’t catch up to Logain…”

“It’s funny but, ever since he left, you’ve come to call him Logain like all the rest of us…”

Taim scowled at his water. “Feels more natural,” he muttered.

“M’Hael!” one of the Dedicated called. “Won’t you dance?”

“Yeah!” another recruit shouted. “My lord, you must join us! Show us how it’s done in Saldaea!”

“The _sa’sara_!” one of the spouses demanded. The call was picked up by several men and women, who were already quite inebriated.

Natael couldn’t help but feeling left out. It wasn’t that he wanted to dance with these tipsy bumpkins, but-

“Ghraem, why aren’t playing any music? Of all the times to choose to be quiet…”

Now everyone was chanting _both_ their names.

“Do you know the _sa’sara_?” Natael whispered.

“What?” Taim sputtered. “Of course not! It’s a dance for _women_! How would I…” His cheeks grew redder with every word. “It’s ridiculously inappropriate.”

The chanting continued. Natael unstrapped his travel-sized harp; he’d had a feeling that it might come in handy tonight. “A private demonstration for me later, then,” he said with a wicked grin. “But you should come anyway. Dance however you want. Have a drink, for goodness’s sake. Let’s forget about everything that is wrong in the world and enjoy the most monumental day in the history of the Third Age, shall we? Let’s make it count. Just like any other day, it might be our last.”

* * *

“Nate?” Taim spoke quietly into the silence of their room.

They were in bed, Natael’s head resting against Taim’s chest. It was almost dawn. They had not slept a wink, but Natael felt strangely energised. He was ready to face the day – the first day of a new era, one that would belong to male channelers as much as female ones. The Aes Sedai’s dominion was over.

“Yes, dear?”

“About what I said earlier… I didn’t mean to scare you. I don’t expect us to be together forever, of course. That’s silly. We’re both going to live a very long time, if we make it past the Last Battle. I just wanted to say, it’s fine if you don’t feel the same way. I couldn’t ask that of you.” He snorted. “Come to think of it, this relationship is only what, a few weeks old? Has it even been a month yet? I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m sorry. Please don’t make a run for it.”

Natael thought it over for a moment. “There’s nowhere I would rather be than here, with you. I can’t promise I’ll always feel this way… Who knows what the future will bring? But for now, I’m quite happy to be here. And to stay here. As long as you’ll have me.”

“I wonder what horrible thing is about to happen,” Taim murmured.

Natael moved to look him in the eyes, scowling faintly. “What do you mean?”

“When we say cheesy things like that to each other, something terrible usually follows immediately afterwards. Demandred pays us a visit, a bunch of Aes Sedai commit mass suicide… You know, that sort of things.”

Natael nodded. “True, true. I expect an actual dragon to burst into the room at any moment and eat us alive.” He laughed suddenly. “Have you noticed how we seem to take turns at being utterly frantic and then reassuring the other? Isn’t it adorable? We make such a good team.”

“The best team. If we could be bothered, we could take over the world.”

“Yeah, but that sounds like an awful lot of work.” He nuzzled up against Taim’s neck. “I’d rather stay in bed until a dragon or Demandred inevitably interrupts us.”

“I’d rather it were al’Thor, for once,” Taim grumbled. The lad had not showed up at all.

Reluctantly, Natael leaned back, resting on one elbow. “Have you considered the fact that perhaps he _tried_ to visit, but was held back by the Dreamspike? For all we know, he comes by regularly and just can’t Travel inside.”

“I doubt it. He would have found a way in the moment he realised he couldn’t Travel, don’t you think? He would have at least contacted us to demand an explanation. Don’t make excuses for him,” Taim chided. “He’s achieved something incredible yesterday, and we’re all very thankful for it, but that doesn’t make up for what he _hasn’t_ done… Namely, keep an eye on us. Make sure that this male channelers army of his was in good hands and not perniciously being claimed by the Shadow.”

“Again, we chose not to involve him,” Natael reminded him. “But I agree with you. He should have paid more attention to us. I really hope that Logain will get to him soon.”

“Logain must have noticed the ginormous beacon that the Dragon lit up yesterday… He will track him down easily now. A few days, a week at most… He’ll be back with help in no time.” He didn’t sound as confident as his words.

“Wait and see,” Natael said. “That’s all we can do. And I know just the way to pass the time until Logain returns…” This time, Taim didn’t interrupt him.

In fact, for once, no one did.


End file.
